Kill Plan (Ingrid Skyberg FBI Thrillers -) (7 page)

It took a full ten minutes to get served at the bar. After nine of those, Ingrid got so pissed off with the wait that she stooped to using what her dad was fond of calling her “feminine wiles” to jump to the front of the line. She felt a little pathetic, flirting her way to a jug of margarita and two large salt-rimmed glasses, but at least it got the job done.

“We’re not doing shots then?” McKittrick sounded disappointed when Ingrid arrived at the table the detective had secured in a slightly quieter corner of the bar. Ingrid suspected McKittrick had used her warrant card to stake her claim to the bench and two stools.

“You said you didn’t want to have a big night. Margarita is a good compromise.” Ingrid found herself shouting against the din. Was she really so old the atmospheric trance track sounded more like noise than music? She hoped to hell she wasn’t.

“There’s big and there’s enormous.” McKittrick filled their glasses.

“So are you finally going to tell me what Internal Investigations are actually investigating?”

McKittrick shrugged. “It’s just a pain in the arse. A suspect I arrested has made an allegation about me. Says I pocketed some of the drugs we recovered. Claims he saw me slip a few packs into a pocket before we bagged up the evidence.”

“Why are your bosses taking him so seriously? Surely they won’t believe his word against yours.”

“They have to be seen to take every allegation seriously. The Met’s had enough scandal to deal with lately, they can’t take any chances.”

“What was it? Cocaine? Heroin?”

“God no, just some prescription drugs—your usual range of uppers and downers. We weren’t even arresting him for possession. He’s an accessory in a murder investigation. The drugs were just a distraction.”

“When will it all be over?”

“Tomorrow may be my final grilling before they finally accept my word over the scumbag’s.”

“I had no idea you were going through so much crap.” Ingrid squeezed McKittrick’s arm. “You should have told me.”

McKittrick quickly pulled her arm away. “The irony is I’ve been clean for ages. I wouldn’t have taken his poxy drugs if he’d paid me.”

Ingrid stared into her friend’s face, not sure how to take that last statement. McKittrick’s expression was deadpan. The she smiled a little, a twinkle in her eyes.

“I’m kidding! God—you need to know when you’re being wound up.” She topped up Ingrid’s glass. “Anyway—enough about me and my crap, how’s your latest case going?” McKittrick quickly swiped a dish of tortillas from the tray of a passing waitress. Ingrid scowled at her. “I’m sure they’re complimentary,” McKittrick said. “They bloody well should be, upmarket place like this. Besides, I’m ravenous.”

Ingrid quickly updated her with everything that had happened so far.

“And what’s the DI like to work with?”

“He’s fine. I get the impression he’s feeling a little out of his depth.”

“Well it’s a bit beyond your average credit card fraud or case of embezzlement, isn’t it? Out of his depth? I’m surprised the poor bugger’s not drowning.”

“It’s his first homicide. Twelve years a cop and never seen a murdered body before.”

“You need to be gentle with him, then.” She wiped a little chili powder from the corners of her mouth.

“It’s not my job to hold his hand.”

McKittrick raised her eyebrows. “What’s he look like? Is he fit?”

“Why are you even asking?”

“Might add a little more interest to the investigation.”

“I’m engaged to Marshall.”

“But he’s over three thousand miles away. A bit of harmless fun while you’re in London would hurt no one.”

Ingrid lifted her glass to her face and swallowed a large mouthful of margarita before she felt able to comment. “I’m not about to betray Marshall’s trust, how many times do I have to tell you? I still haven’t forgiven you for trying to set me up with your DC.”

“But Mills is practically besotted with you. I thought you might appreciate a little adulation.”

“Well your little matchmaking exercise didn’t work. We had a perfectly pleasant brunch and went our separate ways.”

“What did you talk about, work?”

“Actually, I spoke a lot about Marshall.”

“Well that explains Mills’ stinking mood for the last week. You really know how to crush a bloke’s dreams.”

“I didn’t want him to think I was… available.”

“Well you’ve obviously made that quite clear.”

Ingrid wasn’t sure how the conversation had veered in this direction. She attempted to get it back to neutral territory. “From everything I’ve told you about the case, what’s your hunch? An attack on Fisher Krupps or something more personal?”

McKittrick chewed thoughtfully on a nacho for a few moments before answering. “This Witness Protection fella… when did you say he entered the program?”

“Nineteen ninety-two.”

“I bet you didn’t share that particular nugget of information with Mbeke. Doesn’t exactly promote your theory, does it? How likely would it be that someone would have been holding a grudge against him all these years?”

“It’s not impossible.”

“What about the engineer who’s in the hospital? Would anyone want to target him?”

“We haven’t uncovered any information to suggest that. I think the poor guy was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Why would the toxin have affected the City trader so badly? Is it possible he had an undiagnosed heart condition?”

“I’m hoping the full autopsy report will offer some kind of explanation.”

“And you’re no nearer locating the missing cleaner?”

“Even his neighbors don’t ever remember seeing the guy. Apart from the cleaning agency, no one seems to have heard of him.”

“So he’s got to be the prime suspect?”

“I’d put money on it.”

“I never had you pegged as the gambling type.”

“I’m not—I’m just so damn sure Hernandez has to be responsible.”

McKittrick drained her glass and refilled it. “Enough shop talk. There must be something else we can discuss.”

Ingrid raised her eyebrows.

“OK, OK, I realize we both have nothing else in our lives. What a couple of saddoes. It’s what happens when you dedicate fifteen years of your life to the force.”

“Fifteen? That beats my eight. I feel like an amateur in your company.” Ingrid lifted a glass to her.

“And just you remember that—treat me with the respect a senior law enforcement officer deserves.”

“Yes. Ma’am.” Ingrid sat to attention.

“But don’t take the piss.”

“What made you join the police in the first place?”

“Oh God—that’s far too boring a story.”

“Try me.”

McKittrick gulped another mouthful of margarita. “OK, the edited highlights: parents wanted me to be a lawyer—my dad’s one—he works for good causes, you know, Amnesty International, Liberty, Reprieve. All a bit too worthy for my liking at the time—I decided I wanted to be the opposite of an idealist, whatever that’s called, and I rebelled. I studied criminology at uni then went straight into Nottingham Police graduate scheme and got fast tracked. Never looked back.” She was staring blank-eyed into her half-empty glass. “Your turn.”

Ingrid got the impression McKittrick had edited the story just a little too rigorously, but the forlorn look on the detective’s face warned her not to pry.

“Me… oh now that’s too long a story. You said you needed to get home early.”

“Just give me the headlines.”

Ingrid could feel her nose tingling. She thought it might be the chili powder on the tortillas, but suspected it was the usual cause. She took a deep breath. “I lost someone close to me when I was a teenager. A schoolfriend. My best friend. After she went I promised I’d do everything I could to prevent what happened to her happening to any other fourteen-year-old girl. When it comes to clearing the filth of the streets, I guess I haven’t even scraped the surface during my eight years as a Fed.”

“She was murdered?”

“Abducted. Never found. The Bureau ran the investigation into her disappearance. But they came up with no leads at all in over eighteen months of searching. After three years they wound the case right down.” She shoved a triangle of deep-fried corn into her mouth and started to chew slowly.

“Still hard to talk about?”

“Always—that’s why I avoid the subject.”

“And here I am asking you to rake over it.” She filled Ingrid’s glass. “Sometimes though, getting it out of your system is the best thing you can do.”

“I was in therapy for years afterwards. Believe me, the only thing that made me feel better was being accepted into the Bureau Academy.”

“Well here’s to that achievement.” McKittrick chinked glasses with her. “Just make sure tomorrow you kick arse with this new case of yours.”

11

Up a little later than usual the following morning, Ingrid tried to convince herself it wasn’t the margaritas making her limbs feel sluggish and her head as thick as cotton, but the high dose of deep fried corn. Whatever the cause, she nevertheless forced herself to complete a three mile run, and felt a little better at the end of it. Skipping the strength and flexibility workout was her one concession to the factory of hammers pounding in her head.

When she reached her desk at the embassy, there was already a message waiting for her. She unstuck the Post-it from her computer monitor and tried to decipher Jennifer’s handwriting. Jennifer herself was conspicuously absent. The new recruit, Isaac, was studying something intently on his computer screen in the far corner of the room.

“Hey, Isaac—you came back today, huh? We didn’t scare you off.”

“Good morning, Agent Skyberg—I’m sorry I didn’t see you come in.”

“Call me Ingrid.” She wandered over to his desk.

“Sure.”

“How did you enjoy the grand tour of the embassy yesterday?” she asked him.

Immediately he grew more animated and his eyes lit up. “It was awesome. I didn’t realize there are actually
three
basements under the building. Have you seen the bunker?” He paused a beat then carried on without waiting for her reply. “Stupid question, of course you’ve seen it. Agent Franklin showed me this huge closet of canned and dried foods. It’s got its own independent air and water supply too. I’m sure there must be preppers back home who’d go green with envy for all that stuff!”

Ingrid smiled at his enthusiasm. Hopefully the crushing reality of boring admin work wouldn’t squeeze it out of him too fast.

“Then we went to visit the gym and the steam room,” Isaac continued, almost sounding a little breathless, “Agent Franklin said I should ask Jennifer to organize a pass for me—he said I can use the facilities any time I want—even on the weekend.”

“I’d give it a couple of days before you ask for that. Jennifer’s a little busy doing work for me at the moment.” Ingrid remembered just how pissed Jennifer had seemed at her own lack of training opportunities. No point in adding salt to the wound.

“Sure. OK. I don’t use the gym much anyhow.” Already a little of his enthusiasm seemed to have leaked out of him. “I’m worrying maybe I’ve upset Jennifer in some way. She was a little… distant with me yesterday.”

“I’m sure she was just concentrating a little too hard on her work. Don’t take it personally.”

“OK.” He sounded anything but convinced.

“Hey, how’d you like the view from the top floor?” she asked, hoping to get him a little excited again. It seemed to work.

“The views are amazing. You can pretty much see the whole of London from up there. Agent Franklin took me up onto the roof. The roof! I stood right next to the flag pole. I wanted to take a photograph, but Agent Franklin said it wouldn’t be a good idea.”

Ingrid felt a slight twinge of envy. Sol hadn’t taken her onto the roof when she’d done the tour. Maybe he’d only recently added it to the itinerary—after all, it’d give him the excuse to smoke a cigarette. Sol rarely missed an opportunity to get a nicotine fix. “Sounds like you got the VIP tour,” she said.

“I’m just so pleased to have the chance to work here. Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you. I really want to help.”

“I’ll be sure to.” Ingrid smiled at him and returned to her desk. She stared at the message Jennifer had written but was no nearer deciphering it.

The phone on Jennifer’s desk started ringing. Isaac jumped out of his seat, eager as a puppy to do something useful. He reached the phone at the precise moment Jennifer reappeared. She threw him a glowering look. He backed off.

After Jennifer was finished with her phone call, Ingrid wandered over to her desk. She bent low and leaned in close to the clerk’s ear. “I don’t know what is going on with you and Isaac, but you need to get a grip. He’s young, inexperienced. He needs our support. He’s done nothing wrong.”

“But I’ve been working here for two years and every request I’ve made for professional development has been denied.”

“So you told me yesterday.”

“You think I’m complaining too much?”

“You need to speak to human resources about training. If you need me to approve a request, I’d be happy to do that for you.”

“You would?”

“Sure, but in the meantime, we’ve all got to get along, OK?”

Jennifer nodded reluctantly, still keeping her eyes trained on her new rival.

“Good.” As Ingrid straightened up, something on the 24-hour news channel Jennifer had playing permanently in the corner of her monitor caught her eye. It was an artist’s impression of a young woman with a ghostly pale face and a peculiar shade of red hair. Ingrid pointed at the player window. “Can you make that full screen and turn up the volume?” Jennifer’s fingers flew over the keyboard and suddenly Ingrid was staring at a large portrait of the woman she’d seen two nights ago in Dulwich.

According to the reporter, the police were appealing for anyone who might know the identity of the victim of a vicious knife attack. The picture changed abruptly to show divers on a river police boat peering into a murky, churned up River Thames.

“What is it?” Jennifer was staring at Ingrid rather than the news report.

Isaac was hovering uncertainly next to Ingrid. “You know her?” he said tentatively.