room full of TV monitors, a different image of part of the building on each one. A uniformed guard was showing a plain clothes detective some footage.
“How’s it going, Craig?” Mbeke asked the cop.
“Not sure we’ve got anything worthwhile yet.”
“Can we take a look at the elevator footage between 10.20 and 10.50 a.m.?” Ingrid asked.
Rather than answering her, both the security guard and the detective looked at Mbeke for approval.
“In your own time,” Mbeke said.
Within five minutes the appropriate footage was lined up on the monitor. The image was split in two—the left side showing footage for ‘elevator north’ and the right side displaying what was captured in ‘elevator south’. All four of them crowded around the screen as the guard ran the recordings at eight times normal speed.
“Stop it there!” Ingrid said, after she saw a figure appear dressed in dark pants and the same color long-sleeved green tee shirt Patience Toure had been wearing, a baseball cap pulled low over his face. The still image on the left hand side of the screen clearly showed a bag shoved under the man’s arm.
“Ten thirty-seven,” the young constable read from the screen.
“Dammit—I might have been able to stop him.” Ingrid shook her head. “You think it’s Hernandez?”
Mbeke peered at the screen and shrugged.
“Outside agency staff are issued with temporary security passes,” the guard told them. “So that means we don’t have a photograph of him on the system.”
“You can’t see his face, anyway,” Craig said.
“But it’s enough to keep his place under surveillance?” Ingrid turned to Mbeke. He had already pulled out his cell phone.
“Just about to get that organized,” he told her.
It seemed Miguel Hernandez had just switched from being a potential witness to a possible suspect.
10
Ingrid ducked out of the way, narrowly avoiding a group of three tottering women who had burst through the door of the tequila bar. She checked her watch. It was already a quarter after nine. Her friend was late, as usual. If Detective Inspector Natasha McKittrick didn’t turn up in the next ten minutes, Ingrid would head for the Tube at Old Street. She’d already worked out her route: Northern Line to King’s Cross then Circle or Metropolitan to Baker Street. Her hotel was five minutes away from Baker Street Tube. She moved a little further away from the door and, to keep her mind occupied, replayed the events of her day.
Before she’d left Fisher Krupps, she had discovered a few things that she wasn’t sure helped the investigation into Matthew Fuller’s death or hindered it. On the surface, DI Patrick Mbeke’s request that she liaise more closely with his team should have been a good thing. Unfortunately, the reason for his sudden desire for cooperation didn’t leave her feeling too confident that the case was in entirely safe hands. After he’d sent a surveillance team to Miguel Hernandez’s apartment, Mbeke had taken her to one side for a private chat.
“I’d like you to be more hands on with the investigation,” he’d said.
“Great—the Bureau will do everything we can to assist.”
“Do you know how many murders there were in London last year?”
Ingrid saw the ernest look on his face and waited for him to tell her.
“Ninety-nine.”
That seemed pretty low. She hoped he wasn’t going to move on to a discussion about gun control. She preferred to avoid politics in the workplace at all costs. It only ever ended badly.
“Do you know how many of those were within the City of London?”
Again, Ingrid waited to be enlightened.
“Just one. And I didn’t investigate it.”
She wondered where the conversation was going.
“How many homicide investigations have you worked on?” he asked her.
“Really not that many. The cops only call in the Bureau under special circumstances.”
“How many, ball park figure?”
“Twenty-five, thirty, maybe. I’ve been working in the
“How’s it going, Craig?” Mbeke asked the cop.
“Not sure we’ve got anything worthwhile yet.”
“Can we take a look at the elevator footage between 10.20 and 10.50 a.m.?” Ingrid asked.
Rather than answering her, both the security guard and the detective looked at Mbeke for approval.
“In your own time,” Mbeke said.
Within five minutes the appropriate footage was lined up on the monitor. The image was split in two—the left side showing footage for ‘elevator north’ and the right side displaying what was captured in ‘elevator south’. All four of them crowded around the screen as the guard ran the recordings at eight times normal speed.
“Stop it there!” Ingrid said, after she saw a figure appear dressed in dark pants and the same color long-sleeved green tee shirt Patience Toure had been wearing, a baseball cap pulled low over his face. The still image on the left hand side of the screen clearly showed a bag shoved under the man’s arm.
“Ten thirty-seven,” the young constable read from the screen.
“Dammit—I might have been able to stop him.” Ingrid shook her head. “You think it’s Hernandez?”
Mbeke peered at the screen and shrugged.
“Outside agency staff are issued with temporary security passes,” the guard told them. “So that means we don’t have a photograph of him on the system.”
“You can’t see his face, anyway,” Craig said.
“But it’s enough to keep his place under surveillance?” Ingrid turned to Mbeke. He had already pulled out his cell phone.
“Just about to get that organized,” he told her.
It seemed Miguel Hernandez had just switched from being a potential witness to a possible suspect.
10
Ingrid ducked out of the way, narrowly avoiding a group of three tottering women who had burst through the door of the tequila bar. She checked her watch. It was already a quarter after nine. Her friend was late, as usual. If Detective Inspector Natasha McKittrick didn’t turn up in the next ten minutes, Ingrid would head for the Tube at Old Street. She’d already worked out her route: Northern Line to King’s Cross then Circle or Metropolitan to Baker Street. Her hotel was five minutes away from Baker Street Tube. She moved a little further away from the door and, to keep her mind occupied, replayed the events of her day.
Before she’d left Fisher Krupps, she had discovered a few things that she wasn’t sure helped the investigation into Matthew Fuller’s death or hindered it. On the surface, DI Patrick Mbeke’s request that she liaise more closely with his team should have been a good thing. Unfortunately, the reason for his sudden desire for cooperation didn’t leave her feeling too confident that the case was in entirely safe hands. After he’d sent a surveillance team to Miguel Hernandez’s apartment, Mbeke had taken her to one side for a private chat.
“I’d like you to be more hands on with the investigation,” he’d said.
“Great—the Bureau will do everything we can to assist.”
“Do you know how many murders there were in London last year?”
Ingrid saw the ernest look on his face and waited for him to tell her.
“Ninety-nine.”
That seemed pretty low. She hoped he wasn’t going to move on to a discussion about gun control. She preferred to avoid politics in the workplace at all costs. It only ever ended badly.
“Do you know how many of those were within the City of London?”
Again, Ingrid waited to be enlightened.
“Just one. And I didn’t investigate it.”
She wondered where the conversation was going.
“How many homicide investigations have you worked on?” he asked her.
“Really not that many. The cops only call in the Bureau under special circumstances.”
“How many, ball park figure?”
“Twenty-five, thirty, maybe. I’ve been working in the
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