by Eva Hudson
He answered right away.
“Are you back from the wilds of East Anglia?”
“Uh huh. Listen, do you have a few minutes? I really need to talk something through with you.”
“Jesus, what’s wrong? You sound awful.”
“Do you have the time to—”
“I’m coming over.” He hung up.
Ingrid called him back. A phone conversation was one thing. But face to face? She wasn’t ready for that. The call diverted straight to voicemail.
Twenty minutes later the intercom was buzzing insistently in the hall.
36
Immediately after Ralph’s call, Ingrid drank another glass of vodka then brewed herself a strong coffee. She had just started to drink it when he arrived. She padded unsteadily from the living room to the hall, coffee cup in hand, concentrating hard on walking in a straight line. Although the room wasn’t exactly spinning, she was aware her senses were a little dulled. After what Mike Stiller had told her she should have been grateful for the sensation, but she needed to be alert enough not to let her guard down with Ralph. She didn’t want to risk doing or saying something she may regret.
As she slowly opened the apartment door she wondered whether it would be best to tell him to turn right around and go back home. But Ralph’s anxious expression took her by surprise. She tried to smile at him, hoping to prove he really didn’t need to be quite so concerned. But the muscles in her face refused to cooperate.
“It’s late,” Ingrid said, “I didn’t mean for you to come over. We both have work in the morning.”
“Actually, I don’t start until midday. I can stay up as late as you need me to.”
Should he really be staying at all? He followed her inside and closed the door. She stopped at the kitchen.
“Can I get you anything? A coffee? Tea?”
“A cold beer would be great.”
“Go on through to the living room. I’ll be right in.” Ingrid set her coffee cup on the counter and opened the refrigerator. She stood there for a while breathing in the crisp air, wondering again if she’d made a mistake phoning him. She would ask him to leave after he’d finished his beer, she decided. Before would just seem rude.
She shuffled slowly into the living room, bottle of Mexican beer in one hand, her coffee in the other, to find Ralph standing by the window looking out at the view south toward the center of town. She joined him and handed him the beer. He clinked it against her mug.
“Cheers. Great view you’ve got up here.”
Ingrid’s apartment was only six floors up, from the end of the roof terrace she could make out some of the major London landmarks. She’d only moved in three months ago and the novelty of the view still hadn’t worn off.
“It’s my favorite thing about the place.”
“Beats my one-bedroom basement flat, that’s for sure. I really like the minimalist interior design.”
Ingrid glanced at the few items of furniture: the couch, the coffee table and the low, freestanding bookshelf on the other side of the room. “I guess I need to do a little shopping. All this stuff was already here when I moved in.”
Ralph took a swig of beer, then said, “So. Tell me what’s wrong.”
“It doesn’t seem so bad now. I feel guilty you’ve come all the way here.”
“No distance at all. Honestly. Any time you feel like you want to talk, I’ll be here.” He looked toward the couch. “Shall we sit down?”
He pushed off his shoes and curled his long legs under him as he sat down. He patted the leather couch with the flat of his hand. “Come on, sit down and tell me all about it.” As Ingrid lowered herself onto the couch she noticed Ralph was staring at the shoebox and its contents on the coffee table.
“What’s all this?”
Ingrid blinked. “It’s… ah… it’s…” Tears prickled her eyelids. Dammit. She couldn’t cry in front of him. She squeezed her coffee cup a little tighter, sucked down what she hoped was a silent deep breath.
“Bloody hell.” He slipped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her toward him until her head was nuzzling his neck. He smelled fresh, an aroma of soap rather than overpowering cologne. She liked it. She let herself be held for a few moments longer, then gently pulled away, her tears now safely under control.
“You remember a little while ago I told you I lost a friend when I was a teenager?” Ingrid said, aware she’d have to continue now she’d started, but not entirely sure how.
Ralph nodded and put his beer on the table. He twisted on the couch to get a better look at her.
“Pretty much ever since it happened I’ve been hoping that Megan would be discovered some day, alive. For a long while I fantasized I’d be the one to rescue her. But over time I realized that she was most probably dead, killed not long after she’d been abducted.”
Ralph held his tongue. Ingrid was grateful he had the sense to know not to speak.
“A few days ago, three women were discovered in a house just outside Jackson, Minnesota. That’s only thirty miles from where Megan disappeared.” Ingrid drew in a snagging little breath. She wrinkled her nose and swallowed, trying hard to keep fresh tears at bay. “One of the women couldn’t be identified. I found out tonight that even though she was abducted the same year, even though her description roughly matches Megan… Oh God… it;s not her. It’s not my friend.” Ingrid sniffed. “I knew it was a long shot. I knew that. But it didn’t stop me hoping.” She picked up Ralph’s beer and took a swig. Then she handed it to him. He hesitated before taking it. “I can get you another,” she told him.
“I think maybe you might need it more than me.” He put it back on the table. “And these things in the box, they’re from your childhood? They remind you of Megan?”
Ingrid nodded. “My mom sent them to me. I think she’s trying to make me feel so bad I’ll agree to do what she wants.”
“And what’s that?”
“For years she’s tried to bully me into having a long conversation with Megan’s mom, Kathleen. But I just can’t. I can’t face her.”
“You don’t want to relive it. I understand.” Ralph put his hand over Ingrid’s. His fingers felt warm and strong.
“It’s not that. I relive what happened most days. I can’t avoid it. A sound or a smell can trigger the exact same feeling I had at the time. The sickness in my stomach. The fear. The guilt I felt afterwards.”
“Guilt? It wasn’t your fault.”
“But it was.”
“Some sick bastard took her. How could you be to blame for that?”
“I ran. I thought she was right behind me. I was slow, but she was even slower. I abandoned her. If I’d stayed I could have protected her.”
“You have no way of knowing that. What if he was armed? He might have snatched you both.”
“But I ran. Don’t you get it? I didn’t look back. I just kept on running until I was so out of breath I couldn’t take another step.” An involuntary sob burst out of her mouth. She took a moment to recover. “It was only then that I turned around. And she wasn’t there. She wasn’t a few steps behind me. She’d gone. And it was my fault.” It was the first time she’d admitted that to anyone. Now she had, she wished she could take it back. What must he think of her? “How can I speak to Kathleen when it was all my fault?”
“You can’t keep saying that.”
Ingrid jumped to her feet. “Why not?”
“Because it’s not true. You were just a girl. You did the only natural, instinctive thing you could have done. You expected Megan to do the same.”
“But she was heavier than me. And slower. It wasn’t as if I didn’t know that.” She hurried over to the door that led out onto the roof terrace and unlocked it. She stepped outside and immediately the cool breeze enveloped her. August nights in London had been a lot cooler than she was expecting, but she was grateful for that now. She breathed in deep, expecting the tears to come again. But mercifully they didn’t. After a moment Ralph stepped out onto
the roof. He reached her in a few long strides, wrapped his arms around her and held her tight.
“It’s not your fault,” he said again, whispering into her ear.
“But it is. How can I face Kathleen when I know what I did? What I didn’t do.”
Ralph squeezed her tighter. “I lost someone too,” he said, continuing to speak in a whisper. “I was even younger than you were when it happened. And for years afterwards I blamed myself.”
Ingrid pulled away from him so she could look up into his face. “Who?”
He shook his head. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. Totally different circumstances.” He started to chew at his bottom lip.
“Who was it, Ralph?”
He wandered over to the edge of the roof, looking out at the view. Ingrid followed him.
“Who, Ralph?”
“My sister.” He rubbed his eyes, keeping his face turned away from her. “She killed herself. I was the one who found her in the bathroom.”
Ingrid slipped her hand into his and interlaced their fingers. “I’m so sorry.”
“I was twelve. For years and years I thought that if I’d come home from school just a few minutes earlier, if I hadn’t messed around with my mates in the park first… I could have saved her.”
“But you stopped blaming yourself?”
He nodded.
“What changed? What made you think about it differently?”
“Another suicide. I was still a uniformed officer—it was just a few years ago. I was trying to convince a woman that she couldn’t have done anything to change the outcome. That if someone is determined to end their own life, there’s nothing you can do to dissuade them. Not in the long run.”
“And telling her that, you convinced yourself?”
“Not right away. Took a long time before I came round to that way of thinking.” He squeezed her hand and started to pull her toward the door. “Let’s go back inside. You’re shivering.”
Still feeling light-headed from the vodka, Ingrid allowed herself to be led through the door and back into the living room. Ralph sat her on the couch and disappeared into the hall. He came back a few moments later with the vodka bottle and two glasses. He poured two generous measures and forced a glass into Ingrid’s hand.
“I think you might need this.” He watched as she took a sip. He didn’t drink anything himself.
Ingrid leaned her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes. “Thank you for listening.”
“It’s what I came here for.” He put an arm around her shoulders, his hand caressing the top of her arm. “You can tell me anything.” He he hauled her legs over his so that he was cradling her in his arms. He stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head.
Ingrid nodded, her eyes filling again. She raised the glass to her lips, trying to hide her face with it. Ralph settled back on the couch, his arm wrapped around her, his hand stroking her hair.
*
The insistent ring of Ingrid’s cell phone woke her. It took a moment before she managed to open her eyes. Her mouth was dry. She was curled up on the couch, wrapped in a woolen throw.
Alone.
She sat up quickly and wished she hadn’t. Her head started to pound. She found her phone by her feet. It was four-thirty in the morning. She recognized Gurley’s number and quickly swiped the answer button.
“They found the chopper,” he said brusquely.
“Have you any idea what time it is?”
“It was abandoned in a field in a place named Aylesbury—that’s only forty miles from central London. He’s come back to the capital. I was thinking maybe we should stake out the hospital.”
Ingrid ran a hand through her hair. She was barely awake. No way was she rushing to UCH on a hunch of Gurley’s at this time of the morning. “The location of the helicopter probably isn’t even relevant. Foster could be anywhere.” She tried to sit tall and straighten out the crick in her neck. Her whole body was sore as hell. “You should get some sleep. We’ll think about a strategy in the morning.”
“I’m not going to sleep until I have that sonofabitch locked in a cell.”
37
Ingrid was early for her meeting. She’d arranged with DCI Radcliffe to meet in the café in the main University College Hospital building. She grabbed herself a half decent Americano and sat at a table by the window hoping to see Radcliffe when he arrived. The café was busy, mostly occupied by patients and visitors, no doubt grateful to escape the wards and consulting rooms for a few brief moments.
With a quarter of an hour to fill, Ingrid’s mind naturally returned to the events of the night before. Or rather, the non-events. After she’d put the phone down to Gurley, she’d discovered a hastily written note Ralph had scrawled on the back of an envelope, explaining how it had gotten late, she had fallen asleep and he thought it best to leave, in the circumstances. He’d signed it with his initials. It seemed a little formal, given she’d pretty much poured her heart out to him. Ever since she’d read it she’d been worrying something had happened that she had no memory of. Had she really been that wasted? The vodka bottle had been half full when she started drinking. When she woke up at four-thirty it was empty. Had she just passed out? What did he mean, ‘in the circumstances’? Had she said or done something embarrassing? Offended him, maybe?
She buried her head in her hands. She was driving herself crazy asking the same questions over and over. The more she tried to remember of the night, the more her brain stubbornly refused to recall anything more than the feel of his hand on her hair. Or the smell of his skin.
Good God. Had she blown her chance of starting something serious with the only man she’d met in a long time that she actually gave a damn about?
She retrieved her phone from her purse, and, not for the first time that morning, scrolled to his number in her contacts list. Her finger hovered over the call option.
She couldn’t do it.
Instead she called Mike Stiller.
“Jesus, Skyberg. It’s not even seven a.m. What’s the matter with you?”
“Are you seriously telling me I woke you up?”
“As it goes, I’m on my way to the office. But I coulda been wrapped up in bed.”
“Sure. You’d live at Bureau HQ if someone put a cot next to your desk.”
“I guess you’re calling for another update. Even though the woman isn’t your friend.”
Ingrid took a sip of coffee. “I can’t let this one go now. I owe it to Megan’s mom to see it through.” She owed her a whole lot more besides.
“I do have more news, but you might not want to hear it.”
“Nothing you tell me can be worse than what I’ve been imagining.”
“You might want to brace yourself anyways.”
Ingrid put down the coffee cup.
“They’ve started to recover some remains buried underneath the basement floor and in the backyard.”
Ingrid swallowed. She’d figured the perp wouldn’t have been satisfied with just three abductions. “How many?”
“So far they’ve identified bones from three different bodies. All female. All probably under forty years of age.”
“So far? There could be more?”
“Maybe close to a dozen, according to my sources.”
“Jesus, Mike.”
“I know.”
“And they’re still no closer to tracking him down?”
“Getting closer. Maybe. The theory is that somebody’s protecting him. When the details about the buried bodies hits the news channels, the hope is whoever’s sheltering him will get a bad conscience and come forward.”
“That’s not much of a lead.”
“They’re working some other angles—I just don’t know what they are yet.”
“When you find out, will you tell me right away?”
“I’ll do my best.” He drew in a sharp breath. “Listen, I know this matters to you, but you gotta keep a little perspective, OK? Don’t get obsessed with it, you he
ar?”
“Don’t lecture me, Mike. Just give me what you’ve got just as soon as you get it.” She hung up and shoved the phone back in her purse.
“You’re keen.”
Ingrid looked up to see Detective Chief Inspector Radcliffe looking down at her. “Can I get you a coffee?” she asked.
“I’m awash with the stuff. I had my first at half-six this morning and I haven’t stopped since.” He glanced at his watch. “Professor Glynde is expecting us.”
“Sure.” Ingrid drank the last of her Americano and pushed out her chair. “I really appreciate you setting up this meeting so fast.”
“I’m still not entirely sure why I agreed to it.”
“You don’t want to leave any stones unturned any more than I do.”
Radcliffe marched them down to the main reception area of the hospital and they took the elevator to the third floor. He led the way along a corridor with closed half-glazed doors on both sides. Ingrid supposed this floor housed the majority of the administration department.
“Glynde says he can spare us twenty minutes. He’s due in theater in just under an hour.”
“Busy man.”
“Aren’t we all.” Radcliffe knocked on the door and pushed it open.
Inside, a young woman was standing behind a very organized desk, just a phone, computer and keyboard sitting on top. “DCI Radcliffe?” she asked.
Radcliffe nodded.
“Professor Glynde’s expecting you.” She grabbed a large gym bag from beneath the desk. “I’m off to lunch now—you’ll be taking your own notes at the meeting?”
“We’re fine, no need for you to stay.” Radcliffe smiled at her and knocked on the interior door just to the right of her desk. This time he actually waited for a response before barging in. “Professor Glynde, thank you for your time.” He extended his arm and the two men shook hands. It wasn’t until Glynde looked expectantly at Ingrid that Radcliffe remembered his manners. “This is Agent Skyberg, from the American embassy.”
