The Ingrid Skyberg Mystery Series: Books 1-4: The Ingrid Skyberg Series Boxset

by Eva Hudson

  “Not so far. I have had two proposals of marriage, a heavy breather and a shed load of abuse though.”

  “What gets into folk?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  Ingrid headed for the door. “See you back in there, I guess.”

  “I’ve just finished a double shift. I’m going home. If I’m lucky I might just get there before it’s time to come back again.” She smiled at Ingrid. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks.” Ingrid had a feeling she might need it.

  10

  Ingrid returned to the incident room. It seemed even busier than when she’d left it. The forty-foot square, open-plan office was jammed with desks, two people answering phones at each one. The large room was brightly illuminated by unflattering fluorescent overhead lighting, more than bright enough to expose all the flaws in her hasty repair job.

  She saw Ralph Mills sitting on the edge of a desk, chatting to a detective whose name Ingrid had forgotten. Ralph was dressed in combat pants and a vintage tee shirt, a pair of Timberland boots on his feet. He must have been home to get changed after work. He looked restless, nervously picking the label off a bottle of beer. She was relieved he seemed just as anxious as her about their ‘date’. She took a deep breath and marched toward him.

  A moment later Ralph spotted her and his anxious expression melted away as he smiled warmly at her. In that instant, Ingrid was reminded, just as she had been many times before when Ralph smiled at her, of Clark Swanson: her very first junior high school crush. Something about that smile made her stomach flip, as if she were thirteen all over again.

  She gave him a little smile in return and he jumped up from the desk and hurried toward her.

  When he reached her, a long, awkward moment passed, both of them unsure how to greet one another. Finally they simultaneously opted for a safe peck on both cheeks, a sanitized European-style ‘hello’ that couldn’t carry any subtext. He stood back and beamed at her. “You look fantastic.”

  His dopey grin was infectious. She found herself grinning back at him so hard her cheeks started to ache. “You too.”

  “I’ve managed to commandeer a spare desk in a relatively quiet corner of the room.”

  “Hey, I’m really sorry about this.”

  “I completely understand. You can’t just drop everything. But I’ve had a quick chat with the incident room manager, I’ve wangled you the next twenty minutes off.”

  “A man with influence, huh?”

  “I have my uses. Why do you think the boss has put up with me for so long?”

  Ralph’s senior officer, DI Natasha McKittrick, was the nearest thing Ingrid had to a good friend in London. In fact, Natasha was pretty much the closest friend she’d had in her adult life. After Megan Avery had disappeared, Ingrid had made it a rule not to get too close to people. In each of the field offices she worked in her eight years in the Bureau, she’d done no more than made acquaintances. No real friends. She was grateful Mike Stiller still took her calls.

  “Which reminds me,” Ralph said, breaking into her thoughts. “The boss says ‘hi’.”

  “You told her about our… this… I mean, tonight?”

  “Didn’t you?” When he took in the appalled expression on her face, he made a silent ‘o’ with his mouth. “I just assumed you chatted to her about everything. Thought I’d get in early, try to prevent some of her piss-taking.” He sighed. “Needless to say my strategy didn’t work—she’s been ribbing me about it all day.”

  Even before Ingrid had made the break from Marshall, McKittrick had done her best to act as Cupid. The detective inspector seemed determined to get the two of them out on a date together. Now McKittrick had finally gotten what she wanted. In the end it was easier for Ingrid to give in to her friend’s ham-fisted attempt at matchmaking than continue to pretend she wasn’t interested.

  “She just won’t let up,” he said. “She’s been worse since you broke off—” He stopped himself, no doubt encouraged to by the admonishing look Ingrid was giving him. “That was out of order. Shouldn’t have mentioned it. Sorry.”

  “It’s not like it’s a taboo subject or anything. But I’d rather not spend whatever time we’ve got this evening talking about my ex.”

  Ralph turned away, suddenly unable to look her in the eye. He ducked between desks, not stopping to look back until he’d reached the promised ‘quiet corner’. The small desk was flanked on both sides by long tables occupied by a half dozen cops speaking loudly into their phones. Ingrid joined him and they perched on the edge of the desk, facing toward the wall. Ralph set down the two pizza boxes and pack of beers between them. Ingrid flipped open the lid of the top box.

  “So, Natasha’s been working you hard today, huh?” She pulled out a wedge of cheesy pizza.

  “She’s a tough boss. Fair, but tough.”

  “Sounds like she told you to say that.” She smiled. “And is that OK with you? Working hard all the time? No chance for a little fun every now and then?”

  “We’re having fun now, aren’t we?” He pulled off his own triangle of pizza and took a large bite. At the next desk a female cop slammed down the phone and muttered, “bloody pervert”. Ralph raised his eyebrows. “Ah, the joys of a public appeal. Shame it has to involve the public.” He picked up a bottle of beer, pushed off the top on the side of the desk and handed it to Ingrid. They clinked bottles and Ingrid raised a toast to law enforcement officers everywhere.

  “Hear, hear.” Ralph took a swig of beer. “I might moan about it, but I do seriously love this job. It’s all I ever wanted to do. I suppose it’s in my genes.”

  “Really?”

  “My dad was a copper. Detective Inspector Charlie Mills.” He picked another corner of the label from his bottle. “In his heyday that name sent chills up and down most old lags’ spines.” He took another swig. “If he could see me now, eating fancy pizza and drinking beer out of a bottle.”

  “Pizza too fancy for him is it?”

  “Too foreign, definitely.”

  “A traditional guy, huh?”

  “In every sense of the word. Especially at work. Not always a good thing. He wouldn’t hesitate beating a confession out of a suspect if he needed a swift conviction. They really were the bad old days.”

  Ingrid raised her eyebrows.

  “Don’t get me wrong, I know there are still problems that need sorting inside the Met, but we’ve made a hell of a lot of progress.”

  Ingrid hadn’t envisaged talking about work quite so much on their first date, but given the surroundings, she didn’t really see how they could avoid it. “The guy I’m working with on this case, Jack Gurley?” She turned and looked around the office, expecting to see Gurley standing over someone’s desk, waiting to pounce on a confirmed sighting and leap into action, but couldn’t spot him anywhere. “I get the impression he’s beaten up plenty of prisoners in his time. Different rules in the armed forces, I guess.”

  “How long are you going to be working with him?”

  Was that a fleeting flash of jealousy she detected in Ralph’s expression?

  “Until we locate the suspect. I guess it could be a while.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s OK—I know how to handle the Jack Gurleys of this world.”

  “I wasn’t saying you didn’t, I just—”

  Ingrid grabbed his hand. He looked down at her hand covering his then looked up into her eyes. He opened his mouth to say something else and Ingrid shoved a corner of her pizza slice into it. She opened the other box and pulled out another slice. “You want some of this too?” she said, waving the triangle of dough laden with thick cheese and pancetta.

  Ralph’s nose twitched. “Not for me, thanks. Not a big fan of pork.”

  “You’re not?”

  “Been that way since I was a kid.”

  “Come on—not even crispy bacon?”

  He shook his head firmly. Ingrid noticed he’d gone a little pale. “Not since half a rotting pig car
cass was dumped on our doorstep when I was six years old,” he said.

  “Who would do a thing like that?”

  “Dad never found out. He suspected it was someone he’d put away. Too many potential suspects there to actually pin it on someone.” He shook his head. “My God, it was disgusting.”

  Ingrid looked down at the pizza slice. Ralph’s story hadn’t put her off one bit. She took a bite. “I was raised on the stuff,” she said, in between chews. “My dad was a hog farmer.”

  “He’s retired now?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “I’m sorry. What about your mum?”

  “Oh she’s very much alive—powered by vodka and nicotine.”

  “Are you close?”

  “Not at all. I was a real daddy’s girl. He was the kindest man you could ever meet.”

  “The complete opposite of mine then.”

  “Do you get along OK?”

  “He’s dead too.”

  “Sorry. How did the conversation get so morbid? Let’s change the subject, shall we?” She raised her bottle, couldn’t think of anything to toast, then took a sip. “Here’s to good beer and fine dining.”

  Ralph raised his bottle too. “And beautiful company.” When he realized what he’d just said, his cheeks bloomed crimson. He looked away.

  Ingrid couldn’t help but smile to herself. It wasn’t much of a date, but she had the feeling they would manage to make the best of it.

  Across the room someone hollered. Ingrid turned around to see a uniformed cop waving a piece of paper in her hand and running toward DS Tyson who was just coming through the door. Ingrid jumped up and zig-zagged between the tightly arranged desks.

  “Cab driver, picked up a man and a boy this morning in Judd Street. Just a couple of hundred yards from the hotel. He said he didn’t get a good look at the boy, but the man more or less fits Foster’s description,” the breathless PC said.

  “And where did he drop them?” Tyson asked.

  “The man told him to head north. Then asked him to stop just before they reached King’s Cross Station.”

  Gurley appeared in the doorway. “We have a sighting?”

  “It looks promising,” Tyson told him. “I’ll get on to Transport Police, they can check CCTV at the station.” He looked at the PC. “What time was this?”

  “Around nine a.m.”

  “We should get down there,” Gurley said.

  “That was over twelve hours ago.” Ingrid shook her head. “He could be anywhere by now. But at least we know which direction Foster was headed. It’s a damn sight more than we had five minutes ago.”

  “She’s right,” Tyson said. “Let’s see what the CCTV comes up with before we go racing round. We can make a start on mapping his movements after he left the hotel.”

  Ingrid glanced over to the corner of the office. Ralph shrugged back at her and closed the lid of the pizza boxes.

  She had a feeling it was going to be a long night.

  11

  The news conference had been arranged by the Metropolitan Police press office, with a lot of unhelpful interference from the embassy and the US Air Force. As Ingrid waited on the steps outside the conference hall just around the corner from New Scotland Yard, she let her mind wander to the end of her ‘date’ with Ralph Mills.

  They had said their goodbyes at Holborn Tube station. Ingrid had explained she had a really early start and Ralph said he did too, even though, by the expression on his face, he looked a little crushed by her announcement. Just as she was about to turn away, Ralph pulled her toward him and planted a kiss on her lips. He tasted of oregano and beer. She felt a rush and flutter in the pit of her stomach, like some schoolgirl on a first date, not an until recently engaged-to-be-married thirty-one-year-old woman.

  When they pulled apart again, he looked her square in the eye and for once, he wasn’t blushing.

  Every time she had remembered that kiss subsequently, Ingrid experienced the same flutter radiating out across her body. So what if it made her feel like a lovestruck teenager?

  The sight of Jack Gurley ducking out of a taxi wrenched her from her romantic musings. She was relieved to see he was wearing civilian clothes: a pair of brown pants and a beige shirt with a button-down collar. He still looked like an off duty military cop, but at least it was better than the battledress of the previous day. He spotted her, nodded a restrained ‘hello’ and paid the cab driver.

  They entered the building in silence and followed the last of the journalists and photographers into the main hall. There had been a couple more promising sightings the previous evening, one at the London Aquarium, the other near the London Eye—both locations close to one another on the south bank of the Thames—but as the day approached its end, the number of calls dwindled and eventually stopped. The hope was that a personal appeal by Carrie Foster herself would get more media coverage and in turn lead to a surge in reported sightings.

  As the doors closed behind Ingrid and Gurley, Carrie Foster appeared at the other end of the hall, walking unsteadily along a low stage, assisted by a plain clothes female cop—the family liaison officer Ingrid had seen at the hospital. Foster looked more drawn, and much paler than she had the previous day. She was trembling as she placed her bottle of water on the long table. She sat down next to a gray-haired cop in his late fifties who was wearing full ceremonial dress uniform. The Metropolitan Police were obviously very keen to show the world just how seriously they were taking the situation. Next to the uniformed cop sat DCI Radcliffe, looking every bit as sleep-deprived as Foster.

  The guy in uniform introduced himself as Assistant Deputy Commissioner Trevor Twyford, then went on to explain how Detective Chief Inspector Paul Radcliffe would be leading the investigation. Twyford outlined the details of the case, referring regularly to a stack of printed notes sitting on the table in front of him, reading from them as if he were discovering the information for the first time. When he was done he opened the floor for questions.

  “I hope putting Carrie Foster through this ordeal pays off,” Gurley whispered to Ingrid as a dozen arms went up at the front of the hall. “Look at her. She’s close to collapse.”

  “I expect she’s tougher than she looks.” In Ingrid’s limited experience, military wives had to be resilient in order to survive. “Besides, she knows this might really help locate Tommy.”

  “As long as this press conference doesn’t just generate a shit storm of unverifiable sightings.”

  “Do you have a better strategy?”

  “I have some ideas.”

  “However we may feel about the way the police are handling this, we have to play along. It’s delicate politically—you heard what Sol Franklin said yesterday. We’re guests in this country and right now one of our compatriots is wanted for attempted murder and abduction. I think, on the surface at least, we follow the Met’s lead.”

  “On the surface? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Before Ingrid had a chance to respond, a voice she recognized hollered a question from somewhere near the back of the hall. She might have known Angela Tate would turn up at such a high profile media conference. Ingrid desperately scanned the room to pinpoint the journalist’s exact location, just so she could avoid her later, but she couldn’t see her anywhere. When Tate didn’t get a response from the Assistant Deputy Commissioner right away, she hollered her question again even louder.

  “Is the man armed?” she yelled. “You just warned that the public should not approach him—does that mean he’s carrying a weapon?”

  “We very much doubt that’s the case.” DCI Radcliffe answered.

  “Doubt? You don’t know for sure?”

  “Kyle Foster wouldn’t have had an opportunity to obtain a firearm.”

  “But you don’t know for sure?” she said again.

  “Who is that lady?” Gurley asked, “and why the hell doesn’t she just shut up and sit down?”

  “She’s an investigative reporter working for the E
vening News—the main London newspaper. She has the ability of a bloodhound to sniff out a story and the tenacity of a Russell Terrier not to let go once she’s found it.”

  “You know her?”

  Tate had crossed her path more times than Ingrid would have liked. But she wasn’t about to give Gurley a potted history. She raised a finger to her lips. A hush had descended on the room as, with trembling hands, Carrie Foster shuffled through a stack of paper in front of her. She cleared her throat.

  “Jesus Christ.” Gurley shook his head.

  “Yesterday morning, Molly, my beautiful baby girl, almost died. Right now she’s hooked up to a hundred and one machines that are helping to keep her alive. But at least I know she’s safe. My boy, Tommy, is out there somewhere and he’s in danger. I need everyone out there to help the police find him.”

  Mrs Foster was reading from a sheet in front of her. It seemed so emotive, Ingrid wondered if someone had written the statement for her. It was certainly having the desired effect on the cynical reporters present: they hadn’t made a sound.

  For the next five minutes, Carrie Foster explained, blow-by-blow, exactly what happened to her and her children the day before. It was the same account she’d given the detectives. Her voice cracked and quavered as she spoke, but she carried on, describing Kyle Foster’s PTSD and making it plain just how unstable he had become in recent months.

  “But he’s still my husband,” she said. “I didn’t feel I could tell anyone that his condition was getting worse. I so deeply regret now that I didn’t. Worst decision of my entire life. If I’d thought for a moment that… that…” Her final words got caught up in a sob. The bottle of water was shoved in front of her. She ignored it and stared directly toward the bank of television cameras. With tears streaming down her face, she said, “Please bring him back to me, Kyle. Please don’t hurt my precious boy.” Those were her final words before she started to sob uncontrollably.

  The family liaison officer jumped up, helped Foster to her feet and led her out of the hall by a side exit.