by Eva Hudson
“Not in the least,” she said, holding his gaze. “But I guess that’s my problem.” Dissatisfaction with Radcliffe’s interview technique wasn’t the issue. She was frustrated as hell nobody wanted to consider another explanation for Molly’s injuries.
Without saying another word, the chief inspector left the room. Gurley followed him out, with Ingrid just a couple of steps behind them.
“Tell me I’m not going to witness a repeat of that performance,” Gurley said. “Tell me you have no plans to question Carrie Foster again.”
“Perhaps you should be talking to your colleague about that, rather than me.” Radcliffe marched away.
“What’s going on with you?” Ingrid asked Gurley.
“With me?” He shook his head. “You just don’t know when to stop, do you? When to admit you’re wrong.”
“There’s something you’re not telling me. How can you be so sure Carrie Foster had nothing to do with her daughter’s injuries?”
“You seem to be the only person who isn’t. As far as I can see you’re in a minority of one.”
As they stood in the gleaming, white-walled corridor, the door to the interview room opened and Carrie Foster emerged. She was hanging on to the arm of the family liaison officer for support. She looked from Gurley to Ingrid. “What are you doing here? Was this your idea? I thought you were supposed to be supporting me.”
Gurley reached out a hand to her. Carrie Foster ducked away.
“We are here for you,” he said, his voice gentle.
“You make me sick. All of you.”
The FLO led Mrs Foster away. DS Tyson appeared in the doorway of the interview room. He ignored Ingrid and Gurley and walked away, shaking his head as he went.
“You’ve managed to alienate just about everyone,” Gurley said, contempt in his voice. Then he called after Tyson. “Hey, wait up. I’d like to see the latest intel you have.”
Tyson slowed. “I’m on my way to the incident room now.”
Ingrid was left stranded in the middle of the corridor. She grabbed her phone and called Sol Franklin.
“Hi Ingrid, any developments?” he said as soon as he picked up.
“No. Nothing worth reporting. I’m calling about something else. I want to make a formal request to investigate this case solo. Major Gurley and I have very different, incompatible methods. His attitude is affecting my ability to do my job.”
There was silence for a few moments on the other end of the line.
“Sol?”
“I wanted to talk to you about Major Gurley, as a matter of fact.”
Another pause.
“You did?”
“He contacted the chief earlier today. Major Gurley has requested you’re taken off the case.”
42
Ingrid emerged from Holborn police station in a daze. The rest of her conversation with Sol Franklin had not gone well. She’d let loose a series of grievances about Gurley’s behavior that just made her seem whiny and unprofessional. Sol listened patiently to all of her complaints, finally telling her they’d speak in more detail after he’d tried to smooth things out with the chief. She hoped Sol could work his magic and keep her on the case. She’d come too far now not to see it through to its conclusion.
On the other side of the sidewalk she noticed a small gathering of people. It took her a moment to realize they were reporters. A moment after that a familiar figure stepped out of the crowd.
“Ingrid. I’m so glad I didn’t miss you.” Angela Tate hurried toward her.
Tate was the last person Ingrid wanted to see. She considered making a dash for it. “How did you know I was here?”
“I have my spies at the hospital. They told me Carrie Foster was on the move, accompanied by her FLO and two detectives. It didn’t take a genius to work out she was being brought in for questioning. Has she been arrested?”
“How did your… colleagues find out about it?” Ingrid pointed to the handful of journalists, some of them talking on cell phones, others enjoying a cigarette. She saw Tate’s photographer chatting to a man holding a large microphone covered in a furry windshield.
“News travels fast, unfortunately. I was rather hoping for an exclusive.” She smiled at Ingrid. “Still am, as a matter of fact, with your help.”
“No way.”
“You haven’t answered my question: has Carrie Foster been arrested?”
“I have no intention of speaking to you.”
Ingrid could only suppose Foster had been escorted back to the hospital using an alternate exit. Through the parking lot, most probably. Thank God. At least Tate wouldn’t get the chance to fire questions at her. “How long have you been waiting here?”
“Long enough to get bloody cheesed off. Come on, Ingrid—throw me a crumb.”
“You’re wasting your time. There’s no story for you.”
“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—noth
ing 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 airless 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?”
