by Eva Hudson
Ingrid grabbed her cell phone, found the flashlight app and shone it into the man’s face. He had dark hair and dark eyes, a two inch diagonal scar across his left cheek.
“What are you doing here?” Gurley yelled into his face.
“You’re American. Are you from the base?” He wriggled his shoulders. “I think you might have broken something, you know. I could sue.”
“We had reason to believe you were a known fugitive.” Gurley’s tone was unapologetic. “Tell us what you’re doing in the middle of a goddamn field in the middle of the night.”
“I live here.” He pointed toward the dilapidated trailer.
“You do?” Ingrid said.
“I just needed somewhere to put my head down for a couple of nights.” He turned more toward Gurley. “The missus chucked me out.”
“This is your trailer?”
He shook his head, cleared his throat and spat onto the ground. “I suppose it belongs to the farmer who owns the field. Not sure who that is. But it’s not as if I’m doing any harm. He won’t even notice.”
“So no one knows you’re staying here?” Gurley started walking around the trailer.
The man followed him. Ingrid brought up the rear.
“It’s not exactly something I want to broadcast. I am squatting, after all. And… well, I don’t want my kids to find out. It is a bit of a shit hole.” He wiped his mouth again.
Gurley had reached the front of the trailer and was inspecting the door, it was hanging from one hinge. He grabbed it with both hands and yanked it from its flimsy mooring. The door snapped off like a piece of cardboard. Gurley picked up the bag Sherwood had left inside.
“Hang on,” the man said, a note of panic in his voice. “That’s nothing to do with me. I’ve never seen it before. If you’re trying to plant some evidence on me… you can—”
“Yes?”
“This is my country. You can’t just come over here and act as if you own the place. Bloody hell.” He started rubbing his back. “You know, I think I am going to make an official complaint. What’s your name?”
“I’ll tell you when we get to the station house.”
“The what?”
“I’m sure the police will want to speak to you. At length.” Gurley smiled. Even in the dark, Ingrid could see his even white teeth gleaming. “On the plus side, at least you’ll have a leak-proof roof over your head.”
“Wait a minute.” He peered at the bag in Gurley’s hand. “You’ve got to believe me, that’s not mine.”
Gurley just stared at the man, clearly enjoying his discomfort.
“Really—I wouldn’t lie to you.”
Gurley reached up a hand toward the guy’s head. The man immediately flinched. Gurley placed his hand on the man’s shoulder and squeezed. “I’m feeling generous. So I’ll give you the benefit of a doubt.”
“And there’s no need to tell the police anything, is there?”
Gurley turned his head toward Ingrid. “The police? No—I don’t think we need to get the police involved at this stage.”
“Cheers, mate—I owe you one.”
Ingrid and Gurley left the man where he was and trudged across the field back to the track, Gurley keeping a tight hold of the sports bag. When they returned to the Land Rover, he unzipped it. Ingrid found a pair of nitrile gloves in her purse. She didn’t have a pair large enough to stretch over Gurley’s hands, so she searched the bag. Inside she discovered a small tent, two bed rolls, bread, cheese and a pint of milk, a change of clothes and a folded wad of bills.
“Seven hundred,” Ingrid told Gurley after a quick count.
“Wouldn’t get him that far.”
“We don’t know how much he has on him already. But I guess we can assume he must be running out of cash.”
“And maybe getting a little desperate.”
“There are kid’s clothes in the bag,” Ingrid said, doing her best to sound upbeat. “So maybe that means Tommy is still alive.”
“Or maybe that’s just what Foster wanted Sherwood to believe.”
28
Ingrid parked the Land Rover right outside the entrance to the Hare and Hounds. It was just past closing time, so she was forced to bang on the door for a good minute before it opened. Marcus Sherwood stood in the doorway, arms folded defiantly across his chest.
“Jesus. Look at the state if you.” He looked Ingrid up and down then past her toward Gurley, who was standing on the sidewalk, the sports bag grasped firmly in his hand.
Ingrid shook the remaining dirt from her clothes. “We’re just here to return some property of your mother’s.”
The young barman glanced down at the bag. “Mum hasn’t lost anything. I think you’ve made a mistake.” He started to close the door.
Ingrid shoved her foot over the threshold and grabbed the doorframe with her hand. “We could do this the friendly way, or I can call the police. It doesn’t actually make much difference to me. But your mom might prefer to keep this just between ourselves. Why don’t you go ask her?” She stepped through the doorway, forcing Sherwood’s son backwards.
“There’s no need for that.” Yvonne Sherwood appeared at the open interior door, a resigned, disappointed expression on her face. “You’d better come in.”
Once they’d settled themselves at the same table in the dining area that they’d occupied earlier, Yvonne Sherwood told her son to go to bed.
“I’d rather stay with you. Make sure you’re OK,” he said.
“I can look after myself. I’ll be up soon. If I’m not you can send the search party. All right?” She grabbed his hand and kissed the back of it. It seemed a peculiarly intimate gesture for a middle-aged mother and her grown-up son. But then Ingrid didn’t have much to compare it to. Svetlana had never been the demonstrative type.
Once the son was gone, Gurley dragged the heavy bag around the table and unzipped it. “I guess Foster could really have used this stuff, huh?” He gently kicked at the bag with the tip of his boot. “What did he do—give you a list?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Sherwood scooped a stained cardboard beermat from the table and started to pick at a corner of it.
“Man, it’s been a long day,” Gurley said. “Why is it so many people don’t know what it is I’m talking about?” He turned to Ingrid. “Is it something to do with my accent? Do I talk too fast? Maybe it’s my pronunciation?”
The bar manager said nothing, just peeled off a shred of the printed layer from the surface of the beermat.
“Yvonne, you are aware that aiding and abetting a suspect is a criminal offense?” Ingrid kept her voice low. “Perverting the course of justice carries a maximum sentence of life imprisonment.”
“That isn’t my bag. I’ve never seen it before.”
“Your prints are all over it. And all over the seven hundred pounds inside. We saw you withdraw the cash from the ATM.” Gurley sat back in his chair and interlaced his fingers across the back of his head.
“You can’t threaten…” Sherwood looked from Gurley to Ingrid.
“There really is no point continuing this charade, ma’am,” Gurley told her.
“Where did you find it?” Sherwood stared down at the bag.
“Right where you left it.”
“I’ve never seen it before.” She was sounding less convincing each time she repeated the lie.
“Someone got to the trailer before Foster. Seems you didn’t choose your drop-off location carefully enough—someone’s living there.”
“What?”
“Somebody is living in the trailer.”
“They’ve got no right.”
“But it’s OK for you to drop stuff there for a wanted man, huh?”
She didn’t respond.
“Kyle Foster didn’t get a chance to pick up what you left him,” Ingrid said.
Sherwood closed her eyes.
“Are you ready to start leveling with us?” Gurley kicked at the bag again. Metal clanked
against metal.
Sherwood snapped open her eyes at the sound. “The money’s still inside?”
At last.
“Everything’s inside.” Gurley said. “I guess Kyle really needed that cash.”
“Have you any idea how much trouble you’re in?” Ingrid asked. “You were helping a man accused of attempted murder escape arrest, Yvonne.”
“Attempted murder? That’s ridiculous. Kyle wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s not that sort of man.”
“He’s a First Lieutenant in the US Air Force. He’s flown on dozens of missions. Conducted countless drone attacks. Over the years he must have killed hundreds of innocent civilians. The guy’s hardly a peace loving hippy.” Gurley jabbed the bag with the heel of his boot.
“He was assigned to search and rescue missions in Afghanistan. And the drone operations are for reconnaissance purposes only.”
Gurley gave her a wry smile. “That’s what he told you. He couldn’t say anything else even if he wanted to.”
“OK! But he wouldn’t hurt his own flesh and blood. No way. He loves his kids. He’d do anything for them.”
Gurley sat up straight. “I’m sure under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t deliberately set out to hurt anyone. But under pressure, in the middle of an anxiety attack… in a blind rage? That’s a whole different ball game.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. Kyle just isn’t like that. I’ve seen him have an attack. Have you?”
Gurley fanned out his thick, long fingers in the air. “Please, enlighten me.”
“He doesn’t go on the rampage, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“Really?”
“He gets very subdued, withdrawn, even.”
“What brings on an attack—do you know?” Ingrid asked, wondering whether the screaming of his children would have been the thing that triggered the episode on Monday.
“Stillness. Quiet,” Sherwood said without hesitation. “He can’t stand it. Always has to have the radio on in the car. Or he’s constantly whistling some annoying tune. Anything to fill the silence.” Sherwood flipped over the beermat and started to peel the printed design off the other side. “He told me that sometimes he even goes into Tommy’s room at night just to listen to his noisy breathing. He’s a bit of a snorer, Tommy. My Luke is always complaining about him whenever he comes here for a sleepover.”
Ingrid glanced at Gurley, wondering if he’d remembered that part of Carrie Foster’s account. She had definitely told them it was the noise that triggered Kyle’s extreme reaction.
“It’s just Kyle’s way of handling the problem, I suppose. His coping mechanism,” Sherwood continued. “And he has been handling it. He’s been doing really well.”
“Until Monday morning,” Gurley said.
“No!” Sherwood stood up and threw the beermat on the table. “Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve said? He wouldn’t hurt Molly. He couldn’t. It’s just not in him.”
“Due respect, but none of us know exactly what we’re capable of, ma’am.” Gurley picked up the shredded beermat and folded it in two. Then four. “I mean, I bet before today you had no idea you’d help a suspect evade the law.”
Yvonne Sherwood looked to Ingrid, as if she might offer some support. When she said nothing, the woman slumped back into her chair. “He’s an innocent man. I’m only interested in justice. You all seem to have made your mind up about him.”
“Why are you so certain he’s not guilty?” Ingrid said.
“I’ve already told you—Kyle’s just not like that.”
“When did he first get in touch with you?” Ingrid leaned further forward in her seat, trying to encourage Sherwood to confide in her.
“Why does that matter?”
“We’re trying to piece together his movements. To be frank, we’re also trying to work out what might have happened to Tommy.”
“Nothing’s happened to him. Tommy’s fine.”
“Have you seen the boy?” Ingrid asked.
“No.”
“Spoken to him?”
“No—Kyle told me Tommy wanted to know if Luke was playing football on Saturday. I get the impression Tommy doesn’t even realize anything is wrong. You know what boys are like—he probably thinks it’s all some big adventure.”
The way Sherwood was speaking, it sounded as if Tommy might still be alive. Unlike Gurley, Ingrid didn’t believe Foster would lie to Sherwood if he’d seriously hurt the boy. A wave of relief passed over her. Maybe Rachelle Carver’s assessment of Kyle Foster was accurate. Perhaps he did still care about Tommy.
“A big adventure huh?” Gurley threw the beermat back onto the table. “Including the part where Tommy gets a bleeding nose and split lip, courtesy of his father?”
“What?” Sherwood stared at him wide-eyed.
“I thought Foster may have neglected to mention Tommy’s injuries to you.” Gurley flared his nostrils.
“There has to be some innocent explanation.” Despite her words, Sherwood looked genuinely shocked by the news. “Tommy must have had a fall.”
Ingrid felt the need to move the conversation in another direction, just in case Gurley’s revelation stopped Sherwood talking. “Did Kyle call you on your cell phone?” Ingrid asked.
“He called the public phone, here in the bar.”
“And was he using a cell phone?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“It’s a way we might be able to trace him.” Ingrid leaned even closer to Sherwood. “You do know his best option is to give himself up?”
The woman nodded meekly. “I was hoping to talk him into doing just that. I thought I’d get a chance to speak to him.”
“Oh really?” Gurley kicked at the sports bag again. “Would that be before or after you gave him the money?”
“I just want to help him.”
“He can’t escape, you do realize that?” Gurley said. “There’s no place for him to go. The longer this goes on, the worse it gets for him.”
Ingrid wished Gurley would shut up, he wasn’t helping any. “What was next for Kyle, Yvonne? What was he going to do with the money? Where was he planning on going?”
Sherwood pursed her lips and shook her head so rapidly it looked as if she’d developed a sudden tremor. “He never told me his plans.” She looked Gurley square in the eyes and folded her arms. “And that’s the God’s honest truth. You can arrest me if you want. Threaten me with whatever you like. I still won’t tell you anything—I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”
Ingrid glared at Gurley. He didn’t seem to notice. He was deliberately ignoring her. His bombastic approach had gotten them nowhere. “Major Gurley, would you mind leaving Yvonne and me to speak alone for a moment?”
He frowned at her, completely taken aback by the suggestion.
“Please?”
“I’ll go check on the car,” he finally said, and slowly got to his feet. At the door he stopped and turned around, taking a moment to glower at Ingrid, just in case she hadn’t picked up on his annoyance.
29
“You’re wasting your time if you think I’m going to tell you any more now that he’s left the room.” Sherwood said. “I don’t know where Kyle and Tommy Foster are.”
“When he called you, did you hear Tommy in the background?”
The woman thought for a moment, finally uncrossing her arms and relaxing just a little. “I can’t be sure, I don’t think so.”
“But you didn’t ask to speak to the boy?”
“Why would I?”
“To check he was OK.”
“I had no reason to think he wouldn’t be.” She let out an irritated sigh. “Kyle Foster is a good man. You don’t work in this trade for twenty-odd years without being able to read people.”
“Even good people break down. I’ve been working at the Bureau for long enough to see it happen plenty of times. The nicest folk can do stuff that’s completely out of character.”
Sherwood
shook her head adamantly. “Not Kyle. Molly must have had an accident or something.”
“Did Kyle tell you that?”
“He hasn’t told me anything about what happened. Only that he didn’t hurt Molly.”
“Why didn’t you try to persuade him to give himself up to the police when he called?”
“Because he told me he didn’t do it.”
“But he could explain all of that to the police.”
Sherwood was shaking her head. “He has Tommy to think about.”
“Don’t you think Carrie might want Tommy with her?”
“I saw how she was on the news. She doesn’t look capable of looking after herself, let alone Tommy.”
Ingrid didn’t believe what Sherwood was telling her. There was something more to it. Was it possible Yvonne Sherwood was having an affair with Kyle Foster?
“You OK, Mum?”
Ingrid looked up to see Marcus Sherwood standing at the door.
“I thought you’d gone to bed,” his mother said.
“As if I’d do that, with you being interrogated down here.” He stared at Ingrid. “Where’s the other one? Snooping around somewhere?”
“Major Gurley is outside,” Ingrid told him.
“Go back upstairs, Marcus. I’ll be up soon. I promise.” She stared at Ingrid. “I’m sure we’re almost finished here.”
“Sodding bastard, putting you through this,” he said.
“I can assure you Major Gurley was just doing his job. We have to ask these questions,” Ingrid said. “The police won’t be any different.”
“I wasn’t talking about Gurley.”
“Marcus! Can you please go upstairs?”
“For God’s sake, Mum. He’s not worth getting into trouble over. Think about Luke. What if you’re arrested?”
His mother said nothing. Marcus Sherwood stormed out of the room.
Ingrid sank back in her chair, her eyes wide, her eyebrows raised. She remained silent and waited for Sherwood to comment. After what seemed a very long few moments, she finally did.
“Marcus isn’t a big fan of Kyle’s.”
