Kill Plan (Ingrid Skyberg FBI Thrillers -) (12 page)

When they reached a set of double doors, Mbeke stopped and stepped to one side. “I was about to say, ‘after you’, but I suppose that would be a very
un
gentlemanly thing to do.”

“Don’t worry about me.” Ingrid pushed through the doors and saw Matthew Fuller’s naked body laid out on a steel examining table. His chest was open, the ribs pulled apart on each side and the skin clamped down, away from the gaping hole. She pulled up quickly. A man in scrubs on the other side of the room turned to look at her. In his hands he was holding a bloody organ. From the shape and size, Ingrid guessed it was a heart.

“Ah good, you’ve arrived,” the pathologist said. “I’m Colm Anderson.” He carefully laid the heart in a steel dish. “Sorry to get you down here, but I thought it made sense to show you, rather than try to explain it over the phone.”

“What are we looking at, exactly?” Ingrid stepped closer to the examining table and forced herself to peer into the corpse’s thoracic cavity. It was just that—a hole where his organs should have been.

“It’s easier to demonstrate.” The pathologist held up the steel dish containing Fuller’s heart. “Look at this.”

Patrick Mbeke shuffled a little closer. He seemed even more reluctant to be in an autopsy room than DC Fraser had been earlier. He screwed up his eyes and nose and glanced toward the dish, all the while angling his head away from it.

Anderson prodded the heart with a gloved finger. “I’ve rarely seen a healthier example.” He pulled a green cloth from another dish with a flourish, as if he were a conjuror snapping a table cloth beneath a full set of dinnerware. In the dish was a large liver, deep maroon in color and smooth in texture. “Same with this. In fact all his organs are in perfect working order.”

“And you wanted us to see this for ourselves because…” Mbeke swallowed repeatedly. Ingrid wondered whether he might be forced to excuse himself from the room altogether.

“The healthy nature of the deceased’s organs got me thinking. We’re looking for a toxin that left no visible trace.

Mbeke swallowed again. “OK. But would you mind saying whatever else it is you have to say in your office?”

“I have something else to show you first.” The pathologist strode toward the body. He lifted Fuller’s left hand and gently laid the fingers over his, more like a lover than a medical examiner. With the little finger of his left hand he traced around the edges of Fuller’s fingernails. “See how red they are? And the skin on the knuckles too?” If I didn’t know this man was a City trader I would have sworn he worked in an old-fashioned laundry, his hands immersed in strong detergent all day long.”

“And?” Mbeke was edging back toward the door.

“The broken skin on the hands is key. Even with repeated washing, if a poison is absorbed through the subcutaneous layer of skin, one wouldn’t normally expect its effects to have quite the impact it had on this chap. But the broken skin meant that he absorbed much more of the poison than the other victim and at a much faster rate.” He pressed a fingertip against one of the corpse’s knuckles as if to reinforce his point. “The skin on the hands signifies something else too. There’s no blistering or ulceration. That means we can rule out the obvious substances—sulfuric or hydrochloric acid. Which prompted me to do a little research of my own. Having dismissed the possibility of harsh chemicals, I decided to look for something a little more… natural. And I think I’ve hit on the culprit. It’s consistent with the symptoms and the ultimate fatal outcome.”

Mbeke had made it half way to the door by now. “Fascinating. Would you mind sharing that information with us?”

“Aconite.”

Mbeke shrugged and looked at Ingrid. She shrugged back at him.

“I’ve requested it’s fast-tracked, ahead of any other tests, I’m so sure. As soon as it’s confirmed, the doctors can set about helping that poor chap in the hospital.”

“Aconite?” Mbeke said.

“You might know it by another name: monkshood or wolf’s bane?”

“Still not ringing any bells. Is it easy to get hold of?” Ingrid said.

“Common as anything. In fact I think I may have some in my garden. Tall stems with bell-shaped purple flowers. Beautiful… but rather deadly. As this unfortunate gentleman can testify.” He snapped off his gloves and marched toward the doors, pushing one open with his behind. “Now, I rather think you may need a cup of hot, sweet tea, inspector.”

Ten minutes later, Patrick Mbeke seemed to have completely recovered. He thanked Anderson for his time, even though, Ingrid thought, it should have been the other way around, and they made swiftly for the exit.

All the while the detective had been drinking his tea, Ingrid had been wondering whether or not to mention the poisoning case in Savannah. Like Detective Trooe had said, no hunch was so dumb it should be ignored. So when they reached the front entrance and stepped out into the fresh air, Ingrid launched into an abridged version of the Barbara Highsmith investigation not forgetting to mention the fact that the perpetrator had given his employers a false address. She spoke so rapidly she barely paused for breath. When she was done she stared at Mbeke expectantly.

“And you think your… what do you call them… your
unsub
is here in London?”

Ingrid supposed Mbeke was basing his information on some American cop show he’d seen. “He’s not strictly speaking an
un
sub, as we have identified him.”

“But you don’t know his real name.”

“True. But we do know what he looks like. We have a pretty good photograph of him.”

“Even if it is a long shot, I suppose we should at least rule it out.” He pointed his key fob toward a black BMW parked in the lot outside the morgue. The alarm chirruped and the doors unlocked. “You need a lift down there or do you have your own transport?”

“Why, where’re we going?”

“Fisher Krupps. See if your unsub looks like our missing suspect.”

19

Ingrid had Jennifer send the best quality photo of Darryl Wyatt to both her cell and Mbeke’s. First stop was the cleaning supervisor’s office. Even if the woman wasn’t that familiar with Hernandez’s features herself, she could point them in the direction of Patience Toure, who had to know what he looked like. Hopefully Toure was on duty today.

“Nope, don’t know him,” the supervisor said after glancing at Ingrid’s phone for barely two seconds.

“Please take a closer look, madam,” Mbeke asked, and shoved his phone under her nose. She stared at the image for a little while.

The picture of Darryl Wyatt showed a youngish man with short cropped dark brown hair and a tightly shaved beard. His faced was slightly turned away, from the camera, as if he hadn’t been aware his photo was being taken. His skin was tanned, but hardly lined at all.

After a few more moments studying the picture, the supervisor’s answer was exactly the same. “Sorry—that’s not a face I’ve seen before.”

“How well do you know the cleaners who work here, in general?” Ingrid asked.

“We don’t go to bingo together, if that’s what you mean.”

“But it’s possible you’re not that familiar with his face?” Mbeke gave her an encouraging smile.

“S’pose not. You’d be better off speaking to Patience.”

“She’s in the building?”

The supervisor grabbed her rota from beneath a half-empty cup of coffee and studied it carefully. She sniffed. “You’re in luck. Kind of.”

Mbeke raised an eyebrow.

“She’s here, but she’s on toilet duty today. She could be anywhere in the building. I’ve got a mobile number for her, I can give her a call.” She reached toward the phone on her desk.

“That won’t be necessary, I have it too.” Ingrid didn’t want the cleaner to get spooked and decide to flee. “Thank you for your time, ma’am.”

“Do we really have to trawl through all the lavatories in this building?” Mbeke said when they emerged from the elevator onto the main reception area.

“Hey, come on—it’s only sixteen stories. The exercise will do us good.”

He looked her up and down. “I think neither of us particularly need it.” He folded his arms across his chest, his biceps straining against the material of his jacket. Ingrid felt her face warming.

“So, how about I take the ladies’ restrooms and you take the men’s?”

Mbeke started to move away then stopped. “What if we miss her? What if she’s in the lift while we’re in the toilet?”

“Maybe we’ll get lucky.” Ingrid let out a breath. It was a stupid idea. “OK, rather than call in a whole army of cops to do this—”

“Believe me, the SIO is not going to approve that much manpower.”

“Why don’t I call her cell while you wait at the rear exit, just in case she decides to leave the building. The guy on the front desk can watch the main doors.”

“Give me five minutes to get down there,” he said, but made no attempt to move. “Unless we do this the other way round. It is my investigation, after all.” He planted his feet more firmly on the marble floor of the lobby.

“I think she’s more likely to speak to me. You represent authority here. I’m just some schmuck from the US embassy with no ax to grind and no powers of arrest. And anyway, I’ll be showing her a picture of
my
unsub.” She pulled her phone from a pocket. “Before you go, you should call the personnel department to circulate this photograph to all members of staff. I’m guessing they all have smart phones. The traders at least. See if they recognize the guy.”

“Any more orders?”

“You know I really appreciate your help.”

He raised an eyebrow before swiftly turning around and heading toward the security guy sitting on the reception desk. “I’ll text you when I’m in position,” he called over his shoulder.

Less than ten minutes later, Ingrid’s phone bleeped with Mbeke’s message. She called Patience Toure. To Ingrid’s surprise, the woman didn’t hesitate in telling her where she was. Ingrid headed for the fifth floor ladies’ restroom.

When she found Toure waiting for her in the corridor outside the bathroom, leaning heavily on her cleaning cart, Ingrid texted Mbeke.

“You still looking for Miguel?” Toure said as Ingrid approached. “He’s a good man. You are wasting your time.”

“We only want to speak to him, ma’am. If he hadn’t just disappeared, we’d have found out for ourselves whether he’s good or bad.”

Toure shook her head and muttered, “Wasting your time.”

Ingrid found the photo of Darryl Wyatt on her phone and showed it to the cleaner.

“What’s this?”

“Please take a good look, ma’am.”

Toure squinted down at the image. “One second.” She produced a pair of glasses from a pocket and stared at the photograph good and hard.

“You recognize him?”

“Never seen him before.”

Ingrid studied the cleaner’s face carefully. Her expression remained blank. Too blank. As if she were struggling to keep it that way. “You’re saying this isn’t Hernandez… this isn’t Miguel?”

Toure shook her head.

“Please take another look. Try to imagine him without the beard and maybe with darker hair. Or paler skin.”

“It’s not him.”

“Is there any way you could be mistaken?”

“I may need glasses, but I’m not blind.” Toure shoved the cell back at Ingrid and muttered to herself in French. “You are wasting your time looking for Miguel. He’s a good man. I have met plenty of bad ones. Miguel is not one of them.”

“I look forward to discovering that for myself.”

“When you find Miguel. What will you do to him?”

“We just want to talk. He may know something important. Can you think of anywhere he might have taken himself?”

The cleaner blinked her disgust at the question and turned her head away, as if answering was the last thing she would dream of doing. “He’s not a bad man. That is all you need to know.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Ingrid noticed Mbeke appear at the end of the corridor. He’d taken his time. Maybe he was keeping his distance so that he didn’t freak Toure so much she’d stop talking altogether. But Ingrid doubted anything the detective could throw at this woman would scare her. She was made of sterner stuff. Ingrid saw him shrug his shoulders. “I appreciate your help, Madame Toure, I really do.” She said goodbye and jogged toward the detective inspector.

“Make any progress?”

Ingrid shook her head.

“It was worth a try.”

“I’m not convinced she’s telling me the truth. Seems she thinks a lot of the guy. Maybe she’s protecting him.”

“Got any ideas?”

“If she does know something about Hernandez, she’s decided not to talk, and I don’t think anything I can say would persuade her to.” She looked down at the picture of Darryl Wyatt then shoved the phone in her pocket. “You’ll let me know if Fuller’s tissue tests come back positive for aconite?”

“I’m surprised you even need to ask.” He gave her a smile.

Ingrid stopped at the exit and turned to the inspector. “What’s your next move?”

“We’re still in the process of interviewing everyone Fuller knew here in the UK. He doesn’t seem to have been the most popular of blokes—he pretty much kept himself to himself—but so far we haven’t found any evidence that he made any enemies either.”

“So we’re no closer to discovering a motive?”

“Not by a long way. You will let me know if you tip up any evidence that connects my case with the one in the US?”

“Of course,” Ingrid said.

All she had to do now was find some.

20

Ingrid returned to the embassy to do a little more digging. Even if the two poisoning cases weren’t linked, in theory it was still possible the man on Marshall’s watch list was right here in the UK and was responsible for the murder of the cherry-headed Latvian.

She reached her desk to discover another note from Jennifer. This one had to have been written in less of a hurry. It clearly informed her she had an appointment in Kilburn at ten-thirty a.m. the next morning. A woman had reported her husband missing to the local cops, but was frustrated they hadn’t taken her seriously. She wanted the embassy to do something about it.

Ingrid slammed a hand down onto her desk and cursed under her breath.

Angela Tate was due to arrive at ten to conduct her ‘fly-on-the-wall’ interview. Ingrid had been hoping it’d be a really slow day and the journalist would get so bored watching her sitting at her desk, maybe helping Jennifer a little with her filing, that she’d give up on the idea and leave of her own accord. An actual missing persons interview might be just a little too interesting. Then there was the whole issue of client confidentiality.