by Eva Hudson
“Then why are you here? I’m guessing your tall friend is somewhere in the vicinity too.” She peered into the entrance of the police station. “Perhaps he’ll be a bit more talkative.”
“Carrie Foster has not been arrested. That’s all you’re getting from me.”
“Then why bring her to the police station at all?”
“There’s no story,” Ingrid said again. “Nothing to splash across the front page of tomorrow’s Evening News. Sorry to disappoint.”
“Oh I’m sure you are.” Tate pulled a pack of cigarettes from her purse, shook one out and lit it with an antique silver lighter. She exhaled, blowing the smoke behind her. “I do have something else in mind for the headline tomorrow, as it happens.”
“I’m not interested.”
“No? How about I run it past you? I was thinking of focusing on your absolute lack of competence. Your inability to track down a man and his eight-year-old son. You can’t blame this one on the boys in blue. You’re all equally culpable. And as far as I can see, equally useless.”
Ingrid started to edge away. She was actually inclined to agree with Tate. They had failed at every turn. Especially after getting so close to Kyle Foster in Suffolk. It was pitiful. How was he managing to keep Tommy so well hidden?
“Still nothing to say? Don’t you have some embassy approved excuses to reel out?”
Ingrid’s phone started to ring. Relieved, she dug it out of her purse and glanced at the screen. It was Natasha McKittrick. “I have to take this.”
“Of course you do.”
Ingrid answered the phone as she hurried up Lamb’s Conduit Street. She wanted to get away. From Tate. From Gurley. If she hadn’t felt Tate’s gaze boring into her back, she might even have broken into a run. “Hey, it’s good to hear a friendly voice.”
“I haven’t said anything yet.” McKittrick sounded decidedly downbeat.
“You just saved me from the clutches of Angela Tate.”
“What’s that old hack after now?”
“The usual. My soul.”
“Tell her nothing.” She let out a long sigh.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Mills. Have you seen him recently?”
Ingrid wasn’t sure how to answer. She said nothing.
“I’m taking your silence as proof that you have. What happened? I’ve never seen him like this.”
“Like what?” Ingrid worried again that something had happened the previous night that she had absolutely no recollection of.
“I’m used to him moping about when he’s seen you, like a lovestruck teenager, too embarrassed even to take the mildest of piss-taking. But today he’s just been… weird.”
“How?” Now Ingrid was getting really concerned.
“It’s hard to describe. He seems… resigned somehow. That’s the only word I can come up with.”
“About what?”
“About you, I suppose. Like the life’s drained out of him. What on earth happened between the two of you?”
“Nothing.”
“Something must have. Did you dump him?”
“No! Really—nothing happened. As a matter of fact…” Ingrid wasn’t sure she wanted to share this with McKittrick. She certainly didn’t want to be teased about it. She wasn’t in the right frame of mind.
“What? You have to tell me now.”
“Nothing happened between us and I’d really hoped it might.”
“Whoa! You’re telling me neither of you made a move? Where was this?”
“My apartment, late last night.”
“I had no idea you planned to get together yesterday.”
Ingrid turned right into Great Ormond Street, not entirely clear where she was headed. “It wasn’t planned. I needed someone to talk to, your cell went straight to voicemail. So I called Ralph. It was a spur of the moment thing. He came over. We talked.” She picked up speed, hoping to walk off the awkwardness she was feeling.
“And?”
“And nothing—I told you already—nothing happened. I woke up a few hours later and he was gone.” She reached the end of the street and stopped.
“You fell asleep on him? As insults go, that’s pretty damning.”
“I was drunk. He knew that. I hoped he wouldn’t take it personally.” Ingrid looked up and down the street, unable to decide which direction to take. If she turned right she would loop back around to the police station. “I think I may have blown it with him. That the moment has passed. Like we’re destined to be friends and nothing more. He was a shoulder to cry on when I needed it.”
“Maybe you should give him a call. Let him know how you really feel.”
“The mood I’m in right now, that is the last thing I should do.”
“Tate really got to you that badly?”
“No, not Tate. This whole investigation. It’s stalled and I’m not sure how to fix it.”
“You’ll think of something. You always do.”
“Gurley’s asked Sol to take me off the case.”
“That’s a bit extreme.
Ingrid’s phone beeped in her ear. “I have another call. I should probably get it. Maybe we can talk later?”
“Let’s make it over a coffee, I don’t want you falling asleep on me.”
Ingrid hung up and answered the other call. “Yes?”
“DS Tyson here. We’ve had a number of new sightings. One is particularly interesting. DCI Radcliffe thinks you should come back to the station straight away.”
Ingrid took the right hand turn. “Can you meet me at the entrance out back, in the parking lot? There’s somebody I need to avoid.”
43
When Ingrid arrived at the incident room she found Gurley leaning awkwardly over a low desk, deep in conversation with DS Tyson. They seemed to be getting along just fine without her. She felt as though she was on the outside, looking in. Gurley’s attitude toward her in the observation room made more sense now she’d discovered he was doing his best to have her removed from the investigation. He could cozy up to Tyson all he liked: she wasn’t about to let either of them shut her out.
As she approached the desk, Tyson acknowledged her with a nod, and although Gurley turned to face her, he didn’t say a word.
“Tell me about the sightings.” She addressed the detective sergeant, as if Gurley wasn’t there. If Gurley wanted to play games, she would too.
“We’ve had quite a few conflicting reports. If we took them all seriously we’d have to assume Kyle Foster had perfected the ability of being in two or three places at once. Some of them are from opposite ends of the country.”
“And the most promising one?”
“The owner of a convenience store. Said he served a young boy, just over four-foot tall, light brown hair, dressed in clothes that looked a bit too big for him. He was buying milk and Frosties and some paper dishes. The thing that got the shop owner really suspicious was the way the boy spoke. Bloke said he thought the kid had an American accent. Plus the fact he wanted to buy a disposable mobile phone.”
Ingrid raised her eyebrows. “It’s the first sighting we’ve had of Tommy in a long while. The boy’s still alive.” Thank God. “Where was this?”
“We’re in the middle of trying to trace the call. The caller rang off suddenly. Before he told us his location.”
“Do you know why?”
“No idea—I suppose it’s possible Foster turned up and threatened him.”
“How long ago did he call?”
“About fifteen minutes.”
“So you should have a location soon. And Foster has to be pretty close by.”
“The man who called in wasn’t using a landline. It’ll take us a bit longer to get the details of his mobile and address.”
“Anything else to report?” Ingrid glanced at Gurley, who continued to ignore her.
“We’re just waiting on this. Like I said, it’s the most promising sighting we’ve had in a while.”
It felt hot and air
less in the incident room. Although the space was large, none of the windows was open. The hostility radiating from Gurley made the atmosphere downright oppressive. “Listen, I need a little air,” she said. “I’ll be out back. Can you come fetch me when you have news?”
Tyson looked at Gurley before answering. “Of course.”
When Ingrid stepped outside she took a deep breath. She wasn’t at all certain she could continue to work with Gurley if he carried on behaving the way he was. But she sure as hell wasn’t going to leave the investigation without a fight. As she paced up and down between the parked squad cars, her phone chirruped in her purse. She snatched it out and answered without looking at the screen. “You have a location?” She moved toward the rear entrance of the police station.
“Nope. They still haven’t found the guy.” It was Mike Stiller. “That’s not why I’m calling.”
“Sorry, Mike. I thought you were somebody else.”
“I figured that out already.”
“The killer is still on the loose?”
“Yes, but like I said, that’s not why I’m calling. They’ve recovered more bodies. A dozen remains so far. And counting.”
The breath caught in Ingrid’s throat. It was possible one of them could be Megan. “You have to try to get a match with Kathleen Avery’s DNA. You need to get a sample from her.”
“The local Feds did that already. Jeez, I was hassling so hard for it, they could hardly refuse.”
“It won’t be a 100% match—we don’t have a sample from Megan’s dad.” Ingrid remembered the lock of hair at the bottom of the sneaker box. “If it looks promising I can get you a better sample.”
“You can? How?”
“Don’t worry about that for now. Just look out for a Fed-Ex package from me.” A familiar shiver ran up her spine.
“You doing OK?”
“I’m fine. The job’s a little… challenging at the moment.”
“When is it anything else, huh?”
“I really appreciate your help with this, Mike. I think maybe I’ve been forgetting to tell you that, I’ve been so caught up in the detail.”
“Hey, don’t mention it. I’ll call soon as I have more news.” He rang off, leaving Ingrid standing in the middle of a police parking lot feeling more than a little lost.
She walked unsteadily to a low brick wall that separated the lot from the back of the police station and sat down, reflecting on what Mike had just told her.
So many bodies.
The killer must have been adding to his collection for at least eighteen years. Ingrid wondered how long his victims had survived before they ended up buried in the yard or beneath the floor of the basement. How much they had suffered before that. She prayed Megan wasn’t one of them.
The door to the parking lot opened and Tyson stuck his head through the gap. He stared at her for a moment, a shocked expression on his face. “Are you OK?”
Ingrid stood up, relieved to discover her legs were strong enough to carry her weight. “I’m fine.” She swallowed. “Did you get a location for the store?”
“Better than that—Foster’s on the phone right now to your tall friend.”
Ingrid ran to the door and pushed Tyson aside in her hurry to get back to the incident room. “Can you get a trace on the call?” she said, striding down the corridor.
“We weren’t exactly set up for it—we’re trying to get something fixed up as quick as we can.”
Ingrid slowed to let Tyson catch up with her. “It’s OK—the base is monitoring all calls coming into Major Gurley’s phone. I’m guessing it was patched through from his landline at Freckenham?”
“No idea—Jack didn’t exactly get a chance to tell me.”
Tyson’s use of Gurley’s first name didn’t pass Ingrid by. The two of them were getting a little too pally for her liking.
A few moments later, she burst through the incident room door, with Tyson close behind. Gurley turned sharply and glared at her. A plain clothes cop Ingrid hadn’t seen before was sitting at the desk next to him with the handset of a landline pressed hard against her ear. She made a circling motion with an index finger, encouraging Gurley to keep Kyle Foster talking. But Foster knew what he was doing—he wouldn’t stay on the line for long.
“Sonofabitch!” Gurley exclaimed. “The bastard just hung up on me. Said he’d call back tomorrow.” He looked at the detective sitting at the desk. She was nodding and making approving noises into her phone.
“They traced the call to Tring,” she said when she’d put down the phone.
“Where the hell is that?” Gurley said.
“It’s a village just north of London,” the detective explained.
“So he’s maybe on his way back to London? To the hospital?” Gurley asked.
“He wouldn’t risk it,” Ingrid said. “Too many cops.”
“Then why come south at all?”
“What did he say to you?” Tyson asked.
“He was making demands again—that Tommy be put on a plane to the US. The guy’s got a screw loose.”
“What did you tell him?” Ingrid asked.
“What I did before,” Gurley said without looking at her. “To give himself up before he made things even worse for himself.”
“Why would he change his mind now?”
“I’m not giving in to him.”
“We need to at least pretend to agree to his demands—how else are we going to track him down?” Ingrid moved closer to Gurley until he had no choice but to look at her. “What else did he say?”
“He wanted to know how Molly was. I refused to tell him unless he put Tommy on the line.”
“You actually spoke to Tommy?”
“No. Foster went quiet after that. Then hung up.”
“Couldn’t you have given him the information first, then asked to speak to Tommy? The guy’s clearly concerned about his daughter.” Ingrid felt like shaking Gurley.
“How is that relevant? I kept him on the line long enough to trace the call to some village. How hard can it be to find him there?”
“Except that he’s probably already on the move.” Ingrid walked away, just in case the temptation to slap Gurley in the mouth became too overwhelming to resist.
She wheeled back around when the landline on the desk rang. Tyson grabbed it. He nodded a couple of times, thanked the caller and threw the handset back onto the cradle. “Unsurprisingly, we’ve just had confirmation the convenience store is also in Tring.”
“How quickly can we get there?” Gurley asked the detective sergeant.
“With blues and twos? Rush hour traffic? It’s going to take the best part of an hour. Maybe more.”
“We don’t have that much time. I’ll call the base, get a chopper.”
“I can get in touch with the Hertfordshire force. At least get some bodies on the ground.” Tyson was already reaching for the phone. “Maybe get the traffic cops in the air too.”
“If we’re going we should get down to the helipad,” Ingrid said.
Gurley scowled at her, but said nothing. She’d expected him to refuse to take her, point blank.
“I’m coming with you.” she said, forcing the issue.
“I guess so,” Gurley said, reluctantly. “Foster asked for you by name.”
“He did what? How does he know my name?”
“He didn’t say.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Is there anything you need to tell us, Agent Skyberg?” Tyson took a step toward her.
“No! Why would he ask for me specifically?”
“Has Kyle Foster made contact with you before?” Tyson asked.
“What is this? Of course he hasn’t. He must have called the embassy or something—I can get the phone logs checked—see who’s been making inquiries in the Criminal Division in the past twenty-four hours.” Although she was desperate to find a reasonable explanation, the likelihood of Kyle Foster calling the American embassy seemed pretty remote, even to In
grid. “Maybe he’s been back in touch with Yvonne Sherwood. She could have mentioned my name to him.”
Gurley glared at her. “Maybe you can give Sherwood a call. See what she has to say for herself.”
44
Even though Gurley’s suggestion was clearly meant to be sarcastic, on the way to the helipad in Battersea, Ingrid did try calling Yvonne Sherwood. As soon as she’d introduced herself, Sherwood hung up on her. Each time Ingrid tried after that, her calls went straight to voicemail.
“That’s your answer right there,” Gurley snapped at Ingrid after her third attempt. “She must have heard from Foster and now she’s avoiding you.”
“On the plus side, maybe she told him he could trust me. It’s possible, isn’t it? If he’s asking for me specifically.”
She and Gurley were sitting in the back of a Metropolitan Police patrol car, the driver and Radcliffe sitting up front. Tyson and another uniformed driver were following behind. Both cars had sirens wailing and blue lights flashing, trying to get through the evening rush hour traffic as fast as possible. Gurley had reluctantly agreed to let the two detectives ride in the US Air Force helicopter to Tring. He couldn’t really refuse.
Gurley was still pissed at Ingrid over the Carrie Foster interview and she was mad as hell that he’d tried to have her removed from the investigation. But for the time being at least, they were stuck with one another.
Ingrid decided it was time to clear the air.
“Sol told me you’ve been talking to the chief at the embassy.”
“I pretty much guessed that.”
“Can we agree on a truce for tonight?”
Gurley continued to stare out the window as the car swerved and slalomed through the heavy traffic.
“Come on, Jack. Meet me half way here. I’m just as pissed as you.”
He snapped his head around toward her. “What have I done?”
“If you have a problem with me, you should tell me to my face. Not report me to the boss.”
Gurley exhaled noisily through his nose. “I was frustrated. Sometimes it feels like you can be more of an obstruction than a help.”
“Is that what you really think?”
