Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
ORPHEUS
Captured in sleep, the dream holding her firmly, Ingrid Jansen struggled to awaken from her nightmare.
She saw herself as a rookie police officer once again, standing next to a woman who was tied and gagged in a chair.
Ingrid kept reassuring the woman that everything would be all right, though the woman was dead.
Ingrid was unarmed, her baton taken from her at knifepoint by the man and thrown out of the window, breaking it upon impact. Ingrid scanned the room for other objects that she could use to defend herself and checked for possible exits.
The putrid smell of rotting food hung in the air. Movement caught her attention, and for a frightful moment she glimpsed maggots crawling among the pile of unwashed dishes in the sink.
Unbeknownst to Ingrid, the police sharpshooter positioned just outside the kitchen was taking advantage of the broken window.
Her aggressor was becoming even more agitated. “You fucking bitch.” He waved the knife at her.
Pandemonium, a noise shattering the tense atmosphere deafened her, stinging her ears as the gunshot hit just above its target exploding the man’s head. Ingrid was splattered with brain matter. His blood covered her body and entered her mouth. She spat it out, resisting the urge to vomit.
I could bear her dark ruminations no more. It was time to wake her.
Ingrid stirred in response to the sensation of my fingers gently stroking her hair.
She bolted up, heart pounding from both nightmare and the invasive tactile stimulation.
She jumped out of bed wearing nothing but her underwear, and ran to the sitting room.
Finding no one she continued to search each room, still dizzy from sleep.
Finally she ran to the front door finding it was as she had left it—locked, bolt on.
She walked into the bathroom, splashing water onto her face then back into the sitting room, collapsing onto her couch. Pulling her golden chenille throw over her she sat staring into space.
Ingrid glanced at her watch. It was five in the morning. She was due to catch the train at 0700 at Salisbury train station. A Monday. And this week she was attending a police forensic psychologist’s course at Scotland Yard.
The next hour slipped by as she showered, dressed, and eased herself into the rhythm of the day. She set out for the train.
Her mind, wholly absorbed in the intricacies of her caseload, wandered methodically through the labyrinth of evidence back at the office.
Each scrap of fact she examined with forensic clarity, her imagination deductive, relentlessly pursuing conclusions that would uphold the letter of the law and offer solemn justice to those wronged.
She arrived in London refreshed and eager to learn new concepts that would take her career to the next level.
The course was scheduled for 0930.
Being her usual early self, Ingrid sat in the front of the hall in order to get the best view of the lecturers.
She was delighted that her friend Dr. Elizabeth Miller was the senior speaker.
Suddenly this all made perfect sense to her, for if not Elizabeth, who would have placed her name down on the course attendance list?
Elizabeth had been with the police for eleven years, a senior forensic scientist based at Scotland Yard.
She had qualified with a PhD at Oxford and had been recruited by the Metropolitan Police for her say-it-like-it-is attitude.
At thirty-five, Elizabeth was at the height of her career and held in high esteem within the community.
Her slender stature and striking dark features, reflective of her African heritage, gave her a graceful, commanding presence.
Her intellect, of such rare caliber, was in constant demand.
What those in attendance might not have known was that her sense of humor was every bit as beguiling as her brilliance.
She had married John, a police officer at a nearby station.
Ingrid considered herself lucky to have a good friend in the force.
She listened to her friend speak, in awe as Elizabeth conducted the lecture.
Science never stood still and the feats they were accomplishing with DNA sequencing and other cutting-edge innovations were both awe-inspiring and profoundly impressive.
Elizabeth wowed everyone as she shared the latest innovations.
Ingrid thoroughly enjoyed her friend’s articulate presentation and afterward was delighted to accept Elizabeth’s invitation to join her for a drink in Covent Garden.
In the secluded West End wine bar the two women nestled in the corner, sipping Chardonnay while exchanging news about friends and family. It was as though the months that had passed between them were mere hours.
They covered it all, politics, the latest work drama, and even gushed over new recipes they couldn’t stop making.
“What a wonderful surprise, Ingrid,” Elizabeth said. “When I saw your name on the list this morning, I couldn’t wait to see you.”
“Why surprise? Didn’t you put my name on the list?”
“No, darling, but I’m so pleased you are here. We have so much catching up to do.”
“If not you, then whom?”
“Your boss?” Elizabeth asked.
“No, he said he hadn’t.”
“A colleague, then?”
“No.”
“Well, obviously someone has tried to get rid of you for a week from the station, and I am very happy that they did. I’m proud of you. You’re really getting into this detective thing. Making enemies already, darling?”
Ingrid was thoughtful. “I know I can be a bit honest sometimes. Perhaps I’ve ruffled a few feathers?”
“So, my love, how are those nightmares of yours?” Elizabeth asked.
“Oh, God, I don’t get one for months, then . . .” Ingrid trailed off.
“My course can be pretty intense.”
“No, I don’t think so. And there was something else, too.”
“Something else?”
“Don’t go doing that psycho thing on me, Elizabeth.”
“I’m sorry. Force of habit.” Elizabeth winked. “Something else?”
“It’s a bit spooky.”
“You know how I love spooky.”
“Well, I was having that same-old-same-old nightmare.”
“I’m sorry, love. Go on, tell me about it.”
“As I woke out of the dream I felt someone was touching me. You know, on my face and my hair.”
“That’s interesting.”
“When I got up to look around the flat, no one was there. I checked everywhere—rooms, cupboards, under the bed. Nothing. I left my window open, but I’m three floors up so no one could have jumped up there.”
“I love that quaint apartment of yours,” Elizabeth mused.
“My dream. Come on, what does it mean?”
“And I adore its high ceilings. Isn’t it Victorian?”
Ingrid nodded. “The dream?”
Elizabeth became mindful. “What do you think it means?”
Ingrid sighed as she really thought on it. “I’m scared of the unknown.”
“You can handle anything. You’re the bravest person I know.”
“Actually, you are.”
“So how are you really?”
“I’m doing okay.”
Ingrid poked around in her bag and pulled out a card.
“What have you got there?”
“It’s a postcard. Someone left it yesterday at the station front desk for me. It’s of St. Catherine of Alexandria.”
“Let me see.” Elizabeth reached over and took the card from Ingrid. “She’s beautiful.”
“It’s taken from a portrait that’s showing at the National Gallery. It’s on loan, apparently. Limited time to view it. The card’s postmarked from here in London.”
Elizabeth flipped the postcard over. “Ingrid, eight o’clock. That’s all that’s written on it? Looks like you have a secret admirer.”
“I doubt that.”
“Darling, trust me,” Elizabeth said. “You are smart and beautiful, and that’s why men don’t approach you. Perfect skin, big brown eyes, full lips, tight arse. Why, if I wasn’t married . . .”
“You’re outrageous!”
“Now the National is the sort of place that you’ll meet the best guys. You know, your type. Intellectuals always hang out at galleries, museums, etcetera. Go on and get down to the National!” Elizabeth winked.
“What if he turns out to be a stalker. You know you can’t be too careful.”
“What if you took a leap into the unknown. Anyway, if you do meet someone cute, research them within an inch of their life. Spy on them.”
“Is that fair, though?”
“We are women, darling, magnificent and meticulous. It is our divine duty and right to deploy every ounce of investigative genius we possess to scrutinize those fortunate enough to orbit our stratosphere.”
“I like that.”
“Permission given to dive deep into their minds.” Elizabeth winked. “And their private lives.”
Ingrid brushed her thumb over the postcard admiring the remarkable 1507 portrait. It captured Raphael’s rendition of martyrdom as divine ecstasy rather than what it really was, the torture of a young woman for her faith.
It was eerie and yet mesmerizing.
What did sending her this mean? Or perhaps she was overthinking it.
“Now I must dash, as hubby is cooking tonight and such an event is a bit like a solar eclipse. Blink and you will have to wait another hundred years for the stars to align. Now it is what—seven o’clock? Better get moving.”
Ingrid peered down at the postcard again. “Isn’t it strange that this invitation is for tonight?”
“The same evening you’re in London.” Elizabeth sat back, stunned. “Oh, that changes everything. You can’t go. Not now you’ve told me that.”