Flight Risk (An Ingrid Skyberg Mystery Book 7)

by Eva Hudson

  The main entrance to the store comprised two sets of automatic sliding doors. Between the two sets were seasonal items: bags of logs, kindling, Christmas tree stands, and those red-leaved plants that Ingrid could never remember the name of. To prevent the December weather encroaching into the store, the entrance was pumped full of hot air. Ingrid had been lingering in the hot zone for almost thirty-five minutes before she saw what she was looking for. Or rather, who she was looking for.

  The diplomatic license plate––easily identifiable by the D in the middle of numbers on either side––belonged to a hearse-like minivan with blacked-out windows that matched its paint color. It was a Thursday, it was between two and four in the afternoon. That minivan had definitely come from Uppenham Hall. With anticipation flooding her veins, Ingrid stepped out into the cold.

  Ingrid waited next to the shopping carts and watched the vehicle park. A tall, thickset man in his thirties got out of the driver’s door. He was of Mediterranean or Middle Eastern appearance and checked something on his phone as he walked to the side door. He tugged it open, sliding it back to reveal two women inside. As best Ingrid could tell, they were in their twenties, maybe their teens. One was Asian, possibly Filipino or Thai, the other Caucasian. They both looked at him like they hated him.

  Ingrid observed them as they trudged into the store. The women collected a cart each and set off around the aisles. The man headed to the café where Ingrid had just spent the last two hours. In the vegetable section, they grabbed sacks of potatoes, armfuls of carrots, and bags upon bags of onions. Ingrid scooped up a basket and popped in the odd zucchini while she shadowed them. Whenever they reached the end of an aisle, the women made eye contact with the driver who looked down on them from the café. Ingrid wondered what he would do if they took too long to get through a particular section. The Thai girl had a large bruise on her left cheek.

  Ingrid didn’t speak Turkmen, but most people from former Soviet states learned a little Russian at school. When the Asian girl was fetching frozen fish from another aisle, Ingrid approached the girl she thought had made the 999 call.

  “Privet.” Hello.

  The girl turned sharply, her large brown eyes flashing with terror.

  “Do you speak Russian?”

  She shook her head.

  “English?”

  Her head shook again. The girl’s features trembled.

  “Don’t be afraid. My name is Ingrid. I want to speak to you about the motorcycle accident you saw.”

  The girl threw several bags of pasta in her cart and moved sharply away. Ingrid let her get to the end of the aisle, saw the man in the café nod to her, and then followed the girl down the next aisle.

  “Do you remember the accident?” Ingrid asked. All she needed was for the girl to be sure a man had been riding. If she could identify Marcus Williams that would be even better.

  “Please, leave me alone.”

  Ingrid smiled at her. “I need your help.”

  “I cannot help you.” She picked up two jumbo packs of toilet paper.

  “But you saw the accident?”

  The girl’s eyes were imploring Ingrid to leave her alone. She checked over her shoulder to make sure they weren’t being watched. “What accident?”

  “A motorcycle hit a man, a runner.” Ingrid talked quickly and quietly. “On Greenacre Lane.”

  The girl kept walking, collecting a twin packet of kitchen roll from a high shelf. She shook her head. “No. No accident.”

  The Thai girl appeared and smiled at her. She pulled her friend away from Ingrid and the two girls bowed heads briefly, checking their list. Was she just saying she hadn’t seen an accident to make Ingrid go away? Ingrid approached her again in the soft drinks department. The girl recoiled from her, but her desire not to make a scene, or get into trouble, meant she did not say anything.

  Ingrid grabbed the other end of her cart. “But you dialed 999.”

  She swallowed slowly. Her jaw tightened. Her head moved, almost imperceptibly, from side to side. “No,” she managed. Tears threatened her eyes. “I see nothing.”

  Ingrid sensed she was reliving something. The way she flinched when Ingrid had said ‘999’ was the giveaway.

  “Katja.”

  Ingrid turned. The driver was at the head of the aisle, tapping his wrist. Katja’s features crumpled with fear. She tugged the cart hard to release Ingrid’s grip and hurried toward him. Ingrid ditched her basket of zucchini, deodorant and peanuts and went in search of the stationery section. She tore a page out of an exercise book and clicked a pen with a unicorn top. The ink wouldn’t run. She licked the nib and tried again.

  She wrote out her name and was about to add her cell number when she remembered about the sewer. She wrote down the switchboard number at the embassy and slipped the paper into Katja’s cart when her handler was checking his phone. Ingrid didn’t know for sure if Katja was a domestic slave, but her haunted eyes were the hallmark of a woman living in fear and subjugation.

  Ingrid needed her as a witness. And that meant Ingrid had to free her.

  20

  Ingrid had three pounds and twelve pence in her pocket. She couldn’t use her charge card for fear of being tracked, and she didn’t have a phone. Her embassy ID and Russian passport were in the glove box of the rental car. At least she hoped they were. The Beatles could well have seized the Prius, or the hotel management might have towed it for overstaying. But if it was there, then it was possible Red Box didn’t know about it and it was her ticket out of Bishopsgate. She walked toward the Ilex, checking regularly that she wasn’t being followed.

  Ingrid approached the hotel with caution. The Prius was still there. The van her abductors had used wasn’t, but that didn’t mean the Beatles weren’t sitting in other vehicles, or working on the scaffold above a convenience store that had a view of the Ilex forecourt.

  Almost directly opposite the hotel was Biddy’s Café. It had a vintage sign from the 1940s and a menu offering baked potatoes—a staple of the British lunch, Ingrid had noticed—and bacon sandwiches. Ingrid did a walk-by to assess who Biddy’s customers were. The gang of school kids taking up one table were unlikely Beatles fans, and the women in the corner animatedly pointing at a glossy gossip magazine probably hadn’t been in the military or trained by Mossad. She went in. It was only after she’d been looking at the yellowed plastic menu above the counter for two minutes that she remembered how little money she had. Thankfully, a carton of apple juice was only eighty pence.

  Ingrid took a seat at a Formica-topped table away from the window and positioned herself so she could observe the forecourt of the Ilex. The schoolkids—a mix of boys and girls—compared survey results for an end of term geography project. Ingrid couldn’t let their spikes of laughter disrupt her concentration. She had to be absolutely sure no one was watching the car before she drove it away.

  The street lighting flickered on, helping her to a better view of the cars on the forecourt. It was bounded by a low brick wall with a gap that wasn’t quite wide enough for two cars to get through. A faded sign said ‘Residents Parking Only’. Poking over the top of the wall was a laurel hedge with more gaps than an eight-year-old’s smile.

  Three other cars were also parked at the Ilex. In the driver’s seat of a white Jaguar XE was a man who could be the fifth Beatle: thirties, lean, well-groomed. Anyone who could afford a Jaguar would be staying at a much nicer hotel than the Ilex, instantly raising her suspicions. A telephone engineer working at a junction box near the street was also toned and tanned. He seemed far more concerned with getting tools from his van and replacing them than actually using them. He could well be a member of an elite security operation. Returning to the Prius was too risky.

  Ingrid had almost finished her juice when a Range Rover Vogue swung into the Ilex’s forecourt. It was too dark to be sure what color it was, but the way the street lights bounced off its paintwork, it was either brand new or recently cleaned. Ingrid shuffled in her seat to get
a good view of whoever got out.

  The Range Rover took a long time to park, first trying one space, then another, rolling back and forth to fit precisely between the lines. The driver’s door opened, and a woman climbed out. A short woman with long, reddish blond hair. Ingrid’s jaw fell open.

  It was Jen.

  Shales of ice ghosted over Ingrid’s skin. What the hell was Jen doing there?

  “Oh, God, no.”

  Ingrid felt something rip inside her. Was Jen the embassy mole? Please, don’t let it be Jen. Yet, it would explain why she could afford such a nice car on her clerk’s salary. Ingrid’s nostrils burned with the promise of tears. No, not Jen.

  Ingrid’s head shook slowly. She thought about how she had hurt Jen by not saying goodbye. Did Jen know about the Russian passport? Was the reason she hadn’t been invited to Jen’s leaving drinks because alcohol might loosen her tongue? God, it was all possible, wasn’t it?

  “No.” Ingrid wiped away a tear. “I know you. It couldn’t be you.”

  Jen closed the car door and surveyed the hotel. Ingrid checked the telephone engineer. She scrutinized the Jaguar driver. Neither gave Jen more than a cursory look. More importantly, Jen didn’t appear to be looking out for them. She hurried inside the Ilex.

  The school children scraped their chairs back and noisily negotiated who needed to pay for what. Ingrid tried to block them out. She rested her chin on her hands. If Jen was the mole, the Red Box operatives would have acknowledged her in some way, wouldn’t they? Ingrid had worked with Jen for over four years. It simply wasn’t possible that the bright, friendly, naïve Jennifer Rocharde was an enemy agent. She was sure of it.

  Ingrid scanned the café. On the counter were flyers for local events. A jazz night. A Christmas fair. She grabbed a handful of them.

  “Could I borrow a pen, please?”

  The server handed her one, and she scribbled a note on the back of a flyer. She intercepted the schoolkids as they tumbled toward the door.

  “Which one of you wants to earn two quid?”

  “Two quid?” They rolled their eyes in unison. Two pounds didn’t even buy them a phone top-up.

  “Really, none of you?”

  One boy wriggled nervously. “What have we got to do for it?”

  Ingrid gave him her best smile. “Take these flyers and stick one on every windshield of the cars in the hotel parking lot.”

  A girl sniggered. “It’s a car park, actually.”

  “And a windscreen,” said another.

  Ingrid kept talking to the boy. He was little and his clothes didn’t fit. “But this one,”—she showed him the one with the note—“you gotta make sure goes on that Range Rover.”

  “Is that all?”

  “That’s all. And if you’ve got any left, put them under the wipers of all the cars on your way home.”

  The boy took her money and the fistful of flyers. Ingrid watched nervously as he crossed the street. He went straight for the Range Rover—she should have given him better instructions to make it less obvious—but then did as he was told and put the other flyers on the windshields of the other cars. The guy in the Jaguar shooed him away. Ingrid could only hope he didn’t notice the boy wave to her as he started down the street, drumming up trade for January’s Weight Watchers meeting as he made his way home. Ingrid prayed she hadn’t just wasted the last money she had.

  21

  Jen stepped inside Biddy’s Café. Her hands covered her open mouth at the sight of Ingrid. For several moments, she was frozen. Nervously, Ingrid got to her feet and smiled.

  Jen’s head started to shake, slowly moving from side to side. Tears glistened in her eyes.

  “Any table you like, love,” the woman behind the counter said.

  Jen still didn’t move. Ingrid pulled out a chair for her, and Jen took a tentative step toward her. Then another. “I thought you were dead,” she said, her voice faltering.

  Jen’s shoulders shuddered. Ingrid grabbed them and embraced her. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” The shuddering became deep, uncontrollable heaving. All Ingrid could do was hold her until it subsided. “Come on, sit with me.”

  Ingrid ordered them drinks. A filter coffee for her and a hot chocolate for Jen who could not stop crying.

  “But you sent me that email.” She blew her nose on a paper napkin.

  Ingrid explained she hadn’t written it, that they had forced her to unlock her phone.

  “Who?” Jen asked. “Who made you?”

  “A private security agency.” Ingrid told her about the building site and the pulley and the sewer. Jen listened with disbelief.

  “Why? I don’t understand.”

  Ingrid tried to piece it together, and told Jen how she was being framed for killing Matthew Harding, and how they wanted to silence her before she named the real killer.

  “You know who it is?”

  Ingrid nodded. “It’s best if I don’t tell you, though.”

  Jen’s eyes widened, but she didn’t disagree. “And was that why you were leaving the country in a hurry?”

  Ingrid was taken aback. Jen was still bruised by her disappearing act. “No, I hadn’t even heard of Matthew Harding until I got to Heathrow.”

  “So why, then?”

  Ingrid needed to give her an adequate explanation. “I, um, I.” It all seemed so distant now. Irrelevant almost, even though it was only three days beforehand. “I felt my life was a total screw-up.”

  Jen nodded. “And then it, like, got screwier?”

  “The screwiest.”

  The two friends smiled, and Jen reached out and placed her hand on Ingrid’s. Ingrid grabbed Jen’s fingers and squeezed. She hadn’t realized how much Jen had meant to her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  Jen’s eyes brimmed over. “In your defense, though, you had, like, been through a lot.”

  Ingrid pressed her lips together. “True, that.”

  Neither of them spoke for over a minute. They just stared at each other and kept holding hands. The server brought over their drinks.

  “Thank you,” Ingrid said.

  Jen sipped her hot chocolate. “At least now I know why I couldn’t get a trace on your cell. The police wouldn’t even try, you know?” She wiped her nose again. “They said you were an adult. That you weren’t, like, a risk to the public or anything. They said there was nothing they could do. Hardly a surprise. Jeez, you know that better than anyone.” Jen couldn’t stop talking. “I’m just so glad you paid for your hotel with a card. That’s how I found you.”

  Warmth surged inside Ingrid as she watched Jennifer ramble. She was so impressed with how Jen hadn’t crumbled.

  “Penny said I should go home, you know, that I should take the rest of the day off—”

  “Wait.” Ingrid had to interrupt. “You told people I’d emailed you a suicide note?”

  Jen nodded. “Uh-huh.”

  “How many people? Which people?”

  “Um, Penny, Maisie, Rhiannon, some of the other girls in the bullpen.” She tipped her head back. “Oh God, now I have to tell them you’re not dead, and, like, I’m a total idiot for believing the email.”

  “Oh, Jen.” Tears stung at the corner of Ingrid’s eyes. “You are so not an idiot. You’re the most tenacious, brilliant woman I know, and I am just so damn grateful they emailed you and not… and not my mother.” Ingrid slapped her hands against her cheeks. “My mom hasn’t been told, has she?”

  “I, er, no. I don’t think so. No one at work would call her. They’d, like, totally think I’d already done it.”

  They both smiled.

  “They totally would.” An awful notion occurred to Ingrid. “Were people surprised?”

  “What do you mean? Like, of course they were.”

  “But they all thought it was plausible I was suicidal?”

  Jen considered that for a second. “I guess… After Marshall…”

  Ingrid sighed. “Don’t tell me people think I
am still hung up on him! Please!”

  The door to the café opened suddenly, letting in a blast of December air. Ingrid’s insides lurched. Her heart thundered. She turned to face the door, her eyes bulging.

  The man was too old to be a Beatle. He waved at the server and smiled. Ingrid exhaled and her abdominals relaxed. She turned back to Jen. “You know, I don’t think you should tell anyone.”

  “What?”

  “That I’m alive. Someone wants to kill me, right? So it’s not a bad thing if the people who want me dead think I didn’t make it out of the sewer.”

  “For real?”

  “Yep.” Ingrid paused. “At least I think so.”

  “What if someone asks questions?”

  Ingrid pulled a face. “Dunno. Tell them you call the cops every day, asking if any bodies have turned up. Tell them you’ve got an alert with all the morgues.”

  Jen leaned in. “It’s not like they’re going to check themselves, are they?” The faint smile on her lips told Ingrid that Jen liked the idea of being in on the conspiracy, being part of a team.

  “No one can know we’re in contact though, you understand? And I mean no one. There’s a mole in the embassy and if anyone figures out you can lead them to me, you’ll become a target too.”

  Jen puffed out her cheeks and took several breaths. “Understood.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Jen nodded.

  “You really up for this?”

  “I’m sure.” Jen chewed her bottom lip, a tic that meant she had something bad to say.

  “What is it?”

  “There’s something else. About you being dead.”

  Ingrid looked at her sideways. “What?”

  “Well,” Jen dropped her voice to a whisper. “There’s a rumor.”

  “What kind of rumor?”

  “See, so, well… Apparently—like, I totally don’t have this confirmed or anything—there was a security breach. In the ambassador’s suite.” Jen paused and narrowed her eyes. “And well, someone said that you were seen snooping around her office––”