Kill Plan (Ingrid Skyberg FBI Thrillers -) (17 page)

He looked at his watch. “I have another appointment at one.”

“Plenty of time then.” Ingrid waited for him to go back inside. She could stay up here all day.

McKittrick joined her. “I’m guessing you’re sold on it?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Might want to lose the big sloppy grin that’s been on your face since we set foot over the threshold, if you’re going to stand any chance of negotiating a good deal.”

“Don’t worry—my dad taught me how to haggle.”

“I look forward to seeing you in action.”

Ingrid walked to the rail at the edge of the roof terrace and surveyed the horizon through one-eighty degrees. Already her head felt clearer than it had in weeks.

“What’s next for you today? Going back to work?” McKittrick asked.

“How did you guess?”

“You are in the middle of two investigations with so many loose ends you could crochet them together and make a hat. What else are you going to do on a glorious Saturday afternoon?”

“You know me so well.”

“What can you usefully do on the weekend anyway?”

“Go through the files again, read up a little more on Darryl Wyatt, the ex-congresswoman, the City trader. Maybe find something I’ve missed.”

“You’re still convinced there’s a connection between the dead Latvian and the trader?”

Ingrid closed her eyes and enjoyed the warmth of the sun on her face for a moment. “Convinced is too strong a word. I’m keeping an open mind.”

“Have you worked out what his motive might have been for killing the Latvian woman?”

“She was accessing his bank account back in the US. Getting a little too close to his former identity. She was a security risk, I guess.”

“But if he’s… what did you tell me earlier… a narcissistic sociopath?”

Ingrid nodded.

“And that means he’s a meticulous planner…”

Ingrid nodded again.

“Then why leave his bank details lying around for the Latvian to discover?”

“I don’t have that worked out yet. Which is why I need to go back to base and do some more digging.”

“All work and no play.”

“I’ll fit in a little parkour before the end of the day. A few easy moves.”

“And that’s your idea of fun?”

“Closest I’ll ever get to flying. Maybe you should give it a try.”

“I’ll stick to taking the stairs and getting off the tube a couple of stops early for my exercise, thanks very much. I don’t know how you fit it all in. Oh no, wait, I remember—you don’t have a social life.”

“Gee thanks.”

The real estate agent was knocking on the glass and pointing at his wristwatch.

“Time for some deal making.” Ingrid rubbed her hands together.

“This I’ve got to see.” McKittrick grabbed Ingrid’s arm as she started to head back to the roof terrace door. “I really think you should take a break from work. Maybe it’d give you a fresh perspective. A new look at everything on Monday might really help you crack the case.”

Ingrid wondered what might be coming next. Hopefully not another invite to a goddamn awful flea market. She’d tried it once and vowed never to do it again. “What do you suggest?”

“Funny you should say that.”

The realtor banged on the glass again.

“All right!” McKittrick hollered at him. “A few colleagues have arranged an unofficial team building exercise for tomorrow—it’s an excuse to let off a bit of steam, really. I wouldn’t mind having you come along for moral support.”

“You think you’ll need it?”

“Even off the job, they still think of me as their boss, they can be a bit guarded around me.”

“You could just not go.”

“They’ve gone to the trouble of inviting me. I can’t say no. I’d appreciate a little company.” She started walking toward the door. “God—I’m not going to beg.”

“OK. I’ll come.”

“Fantastic! I owe you one.”

Having a detective inspector of the Metropolitan Police in your debt had to be a good thing. Ingrid stopped before they went inside. “Wait a minute. Will Ralph Mills be there?”

“Don’t worry—I’ll make sure he doesn’t get anywhere near you. I know what trouble you have keeping your hands off him.”

27

Ingrid’s digging into the case files on the FBI database all Saturday afternoon and most of the evening produced no new leads. She was still waiting for Mike Stiller to get back to her about Barbara Highsmith’s cases from her Assistant US Attorney days. Mike worked long hours, but she couldn’t ask him to give up his weekend for her. So—reluctantly—she left the embassy with as many loose ends as she had before she embarked on her marathon trawl of the records.

After a light thirty-minute parkour session on the south bank of the Thames near Waterloo railway station—it was pretty much a playground for free-runners—she headed back to her hotel for another boring room service dinner and a night in front of the TV. She really did need to get something else to do outside of work: there were only so many walls a girl could scramble over for entertainment.

More than once she pulled her phone from her purse and considered calling Marshall. But what was there to say? “Hey, honey, I’ve just found myself a great new apartment. Oh and I’ve decided to stay on in London for a little while longer.” She could hear his whine of complaint clearly enough in her head without having to suffer the real thing.

With a little time to think, she was also beginning to regret accepting McKittrick’s invitation to attend her ‘bonding day’. The thought of spending that much time with Detective Constable Ralph Mills made her feel more uncomfortable than she knew it should.

So he was a nice guy.

So he made her laugh.

So he reminded her of her very first junior high school crush. She stopped the thought right there, switched channels on the TV and distracted herself with some dark Danish cop show. She struggled to concentrate on the subtitles until sleep finally got the better of her. Investigating two murders in one week had taken its toll.

The next day she skipped her five-mile morning run and spent the time fueling up on a healthy breakfast before embarking on whatever it was McKittrick had planned for her. She had arranged to meet the detective at Kentish Town Tube station in north London and arrived there a little after ten.

“
Now
will you tell me what we’re going to be doing?” Ingrid asked McKittrick when the detective finally turned up fifteen minutes later than planned.

“First of all—we’re getting on a train.” She strode away, toward the entrance of the overground station. “We, my dear, are going to the country.”

“Wouldn’t it be better if we drove?” Ingrid followed her in.

“Might not feel up to getting behind a wheel afterwards.” She strode away.

“After what?” Ingrid joined McKittrick on a bench. The platform was empty apart from a mom and dad struggling to keep two toddlers under control at one end, and a guy in sweats who appeared from the entrance and immediately started some weird T’ai Chi routine, fixing his gaze on the opposite platform.

“I don’t want to spoil the surprise.” McKittrick looked first at the boisterous young family then the man, who was now balancing on one leg. “Let’s make sure we don’t get in the same carriage as the Munsters or the weirdo, all right?”

“Can you at least tell me if I’m dressed suitably for the occasion?”

McKittrick looked at the leather biker jacket, the jeans and the biker boots. “I suppose you’ll do. But I’m not sure you needed the back pack. What’s in there, anyway?”

“Just a flask of water. Some fruit. Something to read. First aid kit.”

“My God, you do like to come prepared.” McKittrick glanced down at the small purse slung over her shoulder. “Must be your FBI training.” She smiled, a twinkle in her eye.

The train came quickly and their journey lasted less than forty minutes. Four people were waiting for them outside the station when they arrived: Detective Constable Ralph Mills, a detective named Cath Murray from the London Crime Squad Ingrid had met for the first time a couple of weeks ago, a smiling petite Indian woman, and a scowling, pink-faced blonde woman who seemed to be a little self-conscious about the few extra pounds she was carrying. Mills looked surprisingly muscular dressed in track pants and tight tee shirt. It was the first time Ingrid had seen him not wearing his trademark brown suit.

“Ingrid, hi!” Mills called out to her. He nodded toward McKittrick. “Boss.” His smile was wide and generous, Ingrid couldn’t help but beam back at him. “Now, you’ve met Cath, I know… but this is Manisha Kapoor…”

“Please, call me Nisha. It’s a pleasure—we’ve heard so much about you,” the Indian woman said as she shook Ingrid’s hand. Her comment was rewarded with a sharp dig in the ribs from Mills.

“And this is Jane O’Brien,” he said, gesturing toward the self-conscious woman, “who I used to work with at Catford Borough Command a few years back. My first job in CID, as a matter of fact.”

“And you’ve come such a long way, pet,” Jane O’Brien said. “All the way to the H-S-C-C.” This remark, for some reason, was met with guffaws of laughter from Murray and Kapoor.

“What did I miss?” Ingrid asked.

“Nothing at all. They’re all a bit over-excited.” He glared at them. “They were like this all the way here. They don’t get out much.” He smiled at her and turned away. “I’ve booked a cab. Should be here any minute.”

Right on cue, a few moments later, a mini-van pulled into the quiet station’s small forecourt and Mills opened the side door. “All aboard the Skylark,” he said, inexplicably.

Ingrid feared the day ahead might turn out to be long and arduous. No wonder McKittrick wanted a little support. Ingrid already felt like she was missing all the in-jokes. Judging by the glowering look on the detective inspector’s face, she supposed McKittrick was too.

“We were talking on the train,” Murray said, when they had all settled into the taxi. “We think you should maybe compete with one arm tied behind your back. You’ll have an unfair advantage otherwise.”

“I will?” Ingrid looked at McKittrick for guidance. “I still don’t know what we’re doing today.”

“Paintballing!” they all said in unison.

Swell
. Ingrid forced a smile. “Sounds like fun.”

After five minutes on the road from the station, the mini-van turned off onto a muddy track and pulled through a ranch-style, wide wooden archway. It then bumped along a rough unmade road for about a half mile before depositing them at the opening of a long narrow marquee. Ingrid watched the taxi leave wishing she were still on board.
Paintballing
for God’s sake. Definitely
not
her idea of fun. A man dressed in army fatigues stepped out of the marquee to greet them.

“Hello! You’re a bit late. Your opposition have already gone into the forest. Not to worry. Let’s start off by grouping you into pairs.”

Mills glanced at Ingrid but made no move.

“Nisha!” McKittrick said. “How’s your aim?” She marched over to the Indian woman and threw a mischievous smile back at Ingrid.

Cath Murray had looped her arm through Jane O’Brien’s.

Mills cleared his throat. “A fait accompli.”

Ingrid was feeling decidedly set up. What did McKittrick think she was doing?

A sudden throaty wail sounded from somewhere in the distance.

“What the hell was that?” Murray asked.

“Primal Scream. We have a men’s warrior course on at the moment. Like a boot camp for your emotions,” the man in fatigues explained.

“Stupid bastards,” McKittrick said. “Haven’t they got better things to do on a Sunday?”

Ingrid was thinking just that about this whole excursion. She could have been enjoying a ten mile run right now. She reached across to a long table at the entrance of the marquee and picked up a glossy brochure. Flicking through it, she discovered the establishment also offered a wild food foraging course, basket weaving and whittling, and archery using traditional Navajo bows and arrows. As if anyone in England would know the first thing about it. The paintballing arm of the operation seemed incongruous to say the least.

“Right, first of all you need to sign a health and safety form indemnifying Nature’s Playground against any claims for injuries.” The group leader handed them all a clipboard with a sheet of paper attached that contained such tiny small print it was impossible to decipher in the gloom of the forest.

Ingrid signed her form using a false name and quickly handed it back. The man in the fatigues gave her a bright orange bib and a half-inch diameter length of bamboo. Ingrid inspected what she supposed was a weapon. A small trigger was attached to one end of the stick, next to the trigger was a circular chamber. “What is this?” She inspected the trigger more closely. The whole contraption looked lethal. No wonder they had to sign a form.

“It’s based on an Cherokee blowpipe. Originally we used a completely authentic design, but discovered that most punters don’t have the necessary puff to send the paint pellets much further than a couple of feet. With the pneumatic pump,” he said, pointing at the chamber, “everyone can achieve a range of twenty-five to thirty feet. It levels the playing field.”

Ingrid slipped the orange vest over her head. It was so bright, they might as well have painted a target on her chest.

“A blowpipe? You’re not serious,” Cath Murray said. “Where are the unfeasibly large bazookas?” For some reason that comment elicited hearty guffaws from her teammate, Jane. “I wore my Ellen Ripley white vest especially for the occasion. Jesus, Ralph what have you got us into?”

Everyone turned to glare at Mills. He held his hands up in surrender. “Let’s make the best of it, shall we? You never know—we might actually enjoy ourselves.”

The organizer ran them through an all too brief demonstration on how to fire and reload the blowpipe, and told them their prey were three other couples, dressed in bright green vests.

“One clean shot to a member of the opposition’s back or chest retires them from the game. Last person standing wins for the team.”

“What’s the prize?” Murray asked.

“The satisfaction of a job well done.”

Murray, Kapoor and O’Brien groaned.

“Let’s make it a bit more interesting then, shall we?” Murray said. “The couple with the most ‘kills’ gets to… enjoy an intimate Sunday lunch at a venue of their choice.”