Run Girl: Ingrid Skyberg FBI Thrillers Prequel Novella (10 page)

“Won’t that take forever?”Ingrid asked.

“Not if I input the data into one of my spreadsheets.” Jennifer tapped the ‘enter’ key and sat back. “There. No time at all. We have…” She peered a little more closely at the screen. “Fifteen possible candidates.”

“That many?”

“London is a very popular destination for internships.”

Nick Angelis was sitting at the desk opposite Jennifer with his feet up. “Tracking fifteen potential suitors might be a stretch before ten p.m. Depending on where they all are.”

“Maybe we can rule some of them out quite quickly.” Ingrid returned to her earlier position standing behind the clerk’s chair. She didn’t give a damn how off-putting it was. This was officially her mission, after all. She stabbed a finger toward the screen. “How about this guy at the top of the list?”

Jennifer swiveled in her chair to a second computer—a laptop shoved to the corner of her desk. Her fingers moved swiftly over the keys. “Dougie Richards,” she read from the screen, “twenty-four years old. Here working for a media company in Soho.” She switched back to the first screen. “His dad’s a congressman. Very friendly with the anti gun control lobby.”

Angelis dragged his feet from the desk and sat up. “Sounds promising. Do you have an address for him?”

Jennifer switched machines again. “Oh drat,” she said. “That’s no good at all.” She smiled apologetically at Angelis. “According to the database, he’s gay.”

“That’s not bad news at all—we are trying to rule people out. Good work, Jen.”

Jennifer beamed at him.

“Carry on at this rate and we’ll get through the whole list before teatime.”

“I’m sorry, I should have asked. Can I get you a tea? Or a coffee?”

“No—I wasn’t hinting. Who’s next?”

The clerk squinted at the screen. Ingrid wondered if maybe Jennifer needed glasses but didn’t like to wear them when Nick Angelis was around. “OK—next up it’s Ray Donaldson.” She swiveled in her seat a few times as she checked both computers. “He should stay on the list. He’s the right age, his mom’s a senator and he’s currently working in a high profile ad agency. The company he works for makes all the advertisements for the Conservative Party.” She looked over her shoulder at Ingrid. “They’re like the Republicans back home, only better educated.”

“Thanks for explaining that for me,” Ingrid said, deciding to let the patronizing tone of the clerk’s voice wash right over her. Now wasn’t the time for her to prove she wasn’t an ill-informed farm girl from the Midwest. “Who’s next?”

“This guy’s mom raised funds in Alaska a fews ago. She’s a fierce Tea Party supporter. Now she’s got political ambitions of her own.”

“And what about him? Is he a suitable candidate?”

Jennifer switched to the laptop. “Ah… not so much. He’s here with his pregnant nineteen-year-old bride.”

“Is it possible he’s cheating on her?” Angelis asked.

“Not judging by the speech his mom gave recently about the sanctity of family. The scandal would ruin her campaign before it even got started.”

They went through another four names on the list and managed to eliminate three of them.

“How many do we have left as potentials?” Ingrid peered at the tiny font on Jennifer’s spreadsheet.

“Ten in total, but there are still eight more to look at.”

“This is taking too long.” Ingrid turned to Angelis. “Can’t we recruit your data guys and speed things up a little?”

“How do you propose we do that?”

“Jennifer—do you have photographs of all the remaining possible candidates?”

“Passport pictures of them. Pretty good quality.”

“How about we send them to Fortnum’s and they can maybe cross match with the pictures uploaded to Rachel Whitticker’s social media platforms?”

“Rachel’s been covering her tracks very carefully—it’s unlikely there’d be a photograph of him,” Angelis said.

“Maybe she’s not as perfect as we’re giving her credit for. It’s just possible she made a mistake, isn’t it?”

Angelis shrugged back at her, but nevertheless gave Jennifer the email address of one of the tech guys at Fortnum’s headquarters. “I suppose it can’t do any harm.”

“OK,” Ingrid said, staring at the spreadsheet once again, “what about this next guy?”

“No—unless you think Rachel’s some place other than London. He’s doing a PhD at Edinburgh University.”

“Strike him off the list. Anyone else studying or working outside of the capital?”

The clerk switched between machines again. “Two others—one in Exeter, the other in Cambridge.”

Angelis shot Ingrid a glance.

“You’re certain Rachel’s in London?” Jennifer asked.

“We’ve had to make educated guesses all day,” Ingrid replied, sensing using the word ‘educated’ was a little misleading. ‘Wild stabs in the dark’ would be closer to the truth. “Leave the Cambridge guy on the list for now.”

“Just a handful more to look at.”

“Out of those remaining, whose family is the most right wing?”

“I’m not sure I can make that judgment.” Jennifer looked to Angelis for support.

“It is a rather subjective decision to make about them,” he said.

“OK—how about a checklist? They should be: anti-choice, anti-gun control, pro small government, pro big corporation tax breaks, global warming skeptics…” Ingrid suddenly ran out of steam. She’d based her list on all the policies her mother supported. She wasn’t sure where her mom stood on economic protectionism.

“OK. I get the picture. Give me a couple of minutes.”

“Sure.” Ingrid started to pace up and down.

“You think Rachel really wants to go all out to embarrass her parents?” Angelis was tapping his cell phone against his dark stubbly chin as he spoke.

“We’ve got to try something to get the list down. We’ve pretty much run out of time.”

Jennifer swiveled in her chair to face them just as Angelis’ phone started to buzz against his dimpled chin.

“We’re down to two—the guy in Cambridge and another one right here in London,” the clerk told them.

Angelis answered his phone, spent a matter of seconds listening to the person on the other end and hung up. “Is one of them called Eugene Barclay, by any chance?”

“Your tech guys found a match on the photographs?” Ingrid asked, sounding more incredulous than she’d meant.

“Seems Mr Barclay added a profile picture—against the express wishes of Rachel Whitticker, one suspects.”

“Maybe he did it recently.”

Jennifer brought up Barclay’s details on her screen. “Oh my gosh,” she said. “He’s working as an assistant for a Conservative MP named Hugh Hollingsworth.”

“An MP? Does that mean he’s in Westminster?”

Jennifer nodded at Ingrid.

“Westminster’s quite close, isn’t it?” Ingrid said, pleased she could demonstrate the little she knew of London geography.

“It certainly is,” Angelis said, “we can be there in less than ten minutes.”

18

Jennifer found the address for the MP’s office. Ingrid was a little disappointed to discover it wasn’t within the Houses of Parliament, but some building on the other side of the street. Sol Franklin called ahead to ensure Ingrid and Angelis would be able to get past the front desk, but was careful not to divulge the nature of their visit.

Just as Angelis had promised, the motorcycle ride took under ten minutes. He parked the bike on Victoria Embankment, the street that ran alongside the Thames between Blackfriars and Westminster Bridges—in an attempt to improve her knowledge of London, Ingrid had checked the map on her phone before they left the embassy—and they ran from the street to the reception lobby of Portcullis House.

As soon as they were through the doors, they were confronted with a metal detector, a bag search desk and two security officers who looked like they should have been playing quarterback for the New York Giants. Angelis waved one of them toward him, whispered something gently into his ear, and showed him an ID badge. The big man clapped a meaty paw on Angelis’ shoulder and started to guide him toward the reception desk. Angelis pulled up and pointed toward Ingrid. The security guard nodded and put a guiding hand around her waist, somehow managing to touch her so lightly, she didn’t have to resist the urge to push away his arm.

Angelis checked in with the uniformed woman behind the desk and was told to take a seat. “We are in rather a hurry. Any chance we could go straight up?”

“Ms Tipton will be down presently,” the woman said firmly.

“Who?”

“Sir Hugh Hollingsworth’s personal secretary.”

Ingrid looked at Angelis. She pulled him away from the desk. “I thought our guy was the MP’s secretary.”

“Assistant. Probably research assistant. Though I’ve never been entirely clear exactly what it is they find to research. An excuse to claim more expenses, I suppose. It’s also possible Barclay’s paying handsomely for the opportunity to work with a senior UK politician.”

“Paying Hollingsworth?”

“One of the perks of the job.” He checked the time. “Let’s give it a few minutes. If this Tipton woman doesn’t arrive swiftly, we’ll just have to—”

“Hello? Mr Angelis?” A woman emerged from an elevator on the other side of the lobby. “I’m afraid Sir Hugh is very busy. He asked me to extend his apologies—”

Angelis put up a hand to stop her. He smiled and strode over to the elevator, his arm extended. He shook her hand in both of his. “Thank you so much for seeing us so promptly. This is Ingrid Skyberg—from the American embassy.”

Ingrid nodded a hello as she joined them. “Actually, we’d really like to speak to Sir Hugh’s research assistant—Eugene Barclay?” she said.

The secretary seemed to grimace slightly at the mention of his name. “Eugene left at lunchtime. He won’t be in for the rest of the day.”

“Really? Where is he?” Ingrid asked.

“I’ve absolutely no idea.”

Ingrid flashed a look at Angelis, who quickly pulled his cell phone from a pocket. “I’m on it,” he said.

While Angelis called his company to have a surveillance team sent to Barclay’s house, Ingrid pulled Ms Tipton gently to one side. “In that case, I think a chat with Sir Hugh is absolutely essential.”

“I told you—he has a completely full diary.”

Ingrid lowered her voice. “I’d hate to have to escalate matters with the Foreign Office. Diplomatic channels can get so bureaucratic, don’t you find? Endless questions to answer. Disruption for the MP, more work for his staff.” Ingrid prayed she’d chosen the correct government department to threaten the woman with.

The secretary narrowed her eyes, staring into Ingrid’s face longer than was entirely comfortable. “I can give you five minutes with him. But that’s it. Sir Hugh shouldn’t even be here. If it wasn’t for the fundraiser this evening, he would already have left for his constituency.”

“Five minutes should be plenty.”

As they followed Ms Tipton to the elevator, Angelis said in hushed tones, “We’ve got four men checking out Barclay’s place. They should be there in less than fifteen minutes.”

“What if he’s not there?”

“Let’s throw ourselves off that bridge when we come to it, shall we?”

Once they’d stepped out of the elevator on the fourth floor, Ms Tipton led them down a wide, well-lit corridor and into an outer room containing one large desk and one small, the small one pushed against the wall on the far side. It was empty except for a computer monitor. File cabinets ran along the length of the left hand wall. On top was a selection of lush green plants in ceramic pots.

“Wait here for a moment, would you?” The secretary hurried to an inner door and knocked sharply. She disappeared inside and reemerged just a few seconds later. “Sir Hugh will see you now. Five minutes. No longer.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Ingrid’s warm smile wasn’t returned.

They followed Tipton into the inner office to find a middle-aged, flabby, floppy-haired blond man sitting behind his desk, speaking on his cell phone. “I’ll call you back later, darling” he mumbled into the phone and hung up.

Angelis stepped forward and introduced them both. The fat MP stared at Ingrid.

“The American embassy, eh? International incident is it?”

“I’m sorry, sir?” Ingrid said.

“Veronica here seems to think the Foreign Office is involved.” He looked up at his secretary who had taken up a defensive position behind his desk.

“Not at this point, Sir Hugh,” Angelis said. “That’s what we’re trying to avoid.”

The MP patted Tipton on the behind. “Really Veronica, you must tame that overactive imagination of yours.” His hand lingered. His secretary didn’t quite manage to control the shudder that rippled across her shoulders as she stepped away from his grasp.

Right away, Ingrid’s attitude to the hostile woman softened. She shouldn’t have to endure that kind of behavior. Which century was Hollingsworth living in?

“So if not an international crisis—what is it?” the MP asked.

“We’d like to speak to your assistant, Eugene Barclay. Where can we find him?” Ingrid asked.

“God knows.”

“Sir?”

“I gave him the afternoon off. His young lady is visiting from America.”

“You’ve met her?” Ingrid struggled to keep the excitement from her voice.

“I’ve not had the pleasure. But the lovesick fool couldn’t stop talking about her. Driving you mad, wasn’t he, Veronica?”

The secretary said nothing.

“What is this all about?” Hollingsworth shoved his flamboyant blond bangs out of his eyes. “Eugene came highly recommended. Good upstanding Southern family—perhaps a little too Tea Party for my own tastes, but a genuinely decent chap.”

“Do you know if his girlfriend is staying with him at his apartment?” Ingrid directed her question squarely at Ms Tipton. If Barclay had been so eager to talk about his new love interest, Tipton would be the one with the vital information.

The secretary glanced at her boss, reluctant to answer.

“Why on earth do you want to know a thing like that?” Hollingsworth said. “Unless you tell me exactly what this is about, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

“We believe the girl he’s seeing is missing from home. She’s a US citizen and we need to speak to her urgently.”