by Eva Hudson
Ingrid didn’t bother to reply.
“I’ve identified a location for you to pick up Tommy. You’ll need to provide the paperwork for travel—I’m sure the embassy can work that out. I don’t have his passport. I want Yvonne Sherwood to take him to the airport and ensure he gets on the plane.”
“Yvonne is here in London?”
“I haven’t told you the location yet.”
“I can take Tommy to Heathrow,” Ingrid said.
“All due respect, agent, I’d rather have someone I can trust.”
“You can trust me.”
“I know you’re trying to keep me talking, so I’m going to go now. I’ll text the location and time shortly. Remember—no police.” He hung up.
“Has he lost it completely?” Gurley said. “He thinks we’ll let that woman just walk away with Tommy? He’s crazy.”
The phone beeped. The text gave an address with a west London postal code, a time and another instruction:
Tommy in exchange for Skyberg
Ingrid stared at the words for a moment, unable to quite take in their meaning. A hostage exchange? It seemed almost a quaint notion. It was totally against Bureau protocol. Yet in the circumstances, it seemed like a logical option. If Foster wasn’t armed, surely she’d be able to handle it?
“He has lost it,” Gurley said, jumping up from his seat. “We can’t agree to that. No way.”
Ingrid watched him pacing around the room. He reached a bank of metal file cabinets and thumped the first one with his fist. Meanwhile Ingrid was trying to figure out how they could make the whole hostage switch work.
“We’d need to get the police involved,” she said. “The Bureau doesn’t have the resources here for that kind of operation.” She stared at Gurley, as if she were willing him to disagree.
“I understand. But can we at least negotiate some measure of control over their operation?”
“Maybe you should leave that to me.”
“Or get your boss involved? Maybe they’d take a little more notice of him?”
Ingrid shook her head firmly. “No way. This isn’t something I want Sol to know about. If I do this, it’s between you, me and the Metropolitan Police Service.” She managed to smile at Gurley, even though a wave of anticipatory nausea was currently making its way from her stomach to the back of her throat.
*
Kyle Foster had chosen a disused industrial estate in Hounslow for their rendezvous. A location that was just three miles from Heathrow Airport. According to Radcliffe, it had been pretty much abandoned in the last recession. As yet, the slow recovery in the British economy hadn’t encouraged new tenants to move in. It was so run down that as Ingrid sat next to Gurley in an unmarked embassy car on the main access road, she fully expected to see tumbleweed blow across the street.
“More waiting,” Gurley said, not for the first time. They’d been parked there for less than thirty minutes. Ingrid hoped something would happen soon. Otherwise his complaining would become unbearable.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket. She snatched it out and answered quickly.
“All personnel are in position,” Detective Sergeant Tyson informed her.
“You’re sure everyone’s well hidden?”
“It’s a bit tricky getting bodies in place in such a deserted location, but we’ve got some men about to start digging up the road just northwest of your current position, and a fake estate agent and two clients heading for the other entrance right about now. Everyone else is keeping their distance. As promised.” He paused. Ingrid could hear him breathing heavily, as if he’d been running. “Are you all right about this?” It was the first time anyone had actually asked her that outright. She was a little taken aback.
“I’m fine. I’ve worked this kind of operation dozens of times before. I’m an old hand, trust me.” It was a gross exaggeration, and she hadn’t done anything like it for more years than she cared to count. “Everything’s under control my end.” Just as she said that, a large muscle in her thigh started to twitch. She convinced herself it was because she hadn’t had a long run for too many days now—nothing to do with her mounting anxiety at all.
A minute later Gurley’s phone started to ring. He glanced at the screen. “This is it. You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
Gurley answered, selecting the speakerphone option once again.
“You double-crossing bastards. Yvonne said I could trust you! What is it with you people?”
“You can trust me,” Ingrid said, raising her voice.
“This place is crawling with cops!”
“Please, Kyle,” Ingrid said. “It’s just me and Major Gurley here.”
“You think I’m blind? Or stupid?
“You have to believe me—I had no idea the police were involved.” Ingrid winced at the weakness of her lie.
“Bull. Shit. You’ll regret this.”
46
Following Tyson’s directions, Gurley drove quickly around the perimeter of the industrial units and out onto the main drag where they found the detective sergeant standing beside DCI Radcliffe at the open rear doors of a small, white unmarked van.
Ingrid jumped out the car before it came to a complete stop, eager to get to Radcliffe before Gurley had a chance to let rip. “What the hell happened?” she said.
“You tell us. What’s he got, this bloke, some sort of sixth sense? You approved our positions before we went into this. What else could we have done?”
Ingrid shook her head. “Foster just told me we’d regret this. He sounded like a man who’s been pushed too far. I’m really worried for Tommy now.” It was the first time she’d even admitted that to herself.
“Jesus Christ?” Gurley yelled. “Can’t you get anything right? You were supposed to be invisible.” Gurley was somehow managing to square up to Radcliffe and Tyson simultaneously. Both detectives took a step backwards. Neither man seemed to have the energy for a fight.
“It happens,” Radcliffe said resignedly.
“Is that it? We just walk away? Where are the roadblocks?”
“We’ve got officers trawling the area. If he’s close by he won’t get far,” Tyson said, watching the retreating back of his senior officer as he disappeared into the van.
“OK—I’m getting back in the car, search for myself.” Gurley said. He turned to Ingrid. “You coming?”
“Actually, I’d like to stay here, speak to the DCI,” Ingrid told him. “Work out what went wrong.”
“Fine—you do that. I have nothing more to say to that man.”
Ingrid watched Gurley march back to the embassy car, hoping in his anger he wouldn’t smash into anything. After he’d accelerated away, tires squealing, she stepped up into the van.
She found Radcliffe sprawled out on a hard bench inside. The man looked exhausted.
“The American Air Force must train their pilots extraordinary well,” he said, rubbing a hand across his bloodshot eyes. “We really were careful about the placement of our officers. There shouldn’t have been any way for Foster to spot them. You have to believe me.” He pulled in his legs and shuffled sideways on the bench, patting the seat beside him. Ingrid perched on the edge.
“It’s OK—I haven’t come in here to question your tactics. What’s done is done. I’m more interested in discussing the new forensics evidence. What exactly do you have?”
Radcliffe seemed a little relieved. “DNA results.”
“It’s taken this long to get them? I know there can be a backlog, but I thought this request was getting fast-tracked.”
“It was fast-tracked. The problem was there were so many samples to analyze. It’s been difficult for the lab to differentiate between them. The samples were from the drain in the bathroom sink. As you can imagine, lots of people pass through a central London budget hotel room over the course of a week.”
“What exactly did you find?”
“Enough to arrest Carrie Foster.”
*
It had
taken Ingrid quite a while to convince DCI Radcliffe that Jack Gurley should be permitted to observe Carrie Foster’s interview.
“Can you guarantee he’ll behave himself this time?” Radcliffe had finally asked.
“I’ll make sure of it.”
She and Gurley were now sitting in a much better equipped observation room than before. This one had so many monitors and digital video recorders crammed inside, Ingrid felt as though she were sitting in a TV studio. There had to be at least a half dozen cameras in the interview room, each one trained on a different location.
Now that Carrie Foster was being questioned under caution, gone were the ambient atmosphere and soft furnishings. This interview room was starkly decorated: four whitewashed walls and a gray tile floor, the only furniture a wooden table and four chairs.
Sitting next to Ingrid in front of an array of monitors, Gurley turned to her and said, “Radcliffe didn’t tell you exactly what they think the forensics will prove?” He kept his voice low so that the lone uniformed officer standing at the door couldn’t hear him.
“Trust me, I’m not holding anything back. You know just as much as I do.” Ingrid had tried to press Radcliffe for the details, but he’d refused to divulge any further information.
“He’s grandstanding. He wants to make the big reveal the same time he confronts Carrie with it. The guy’s playing with us.”
“That’s his prerogative, I guess.”
Gurley glared at her.
“Hey—I’m not saying I agree with it.” She stared back into Gurley’s face. He looked pale. More distressed than angry.
Sudden movement on the monitor screen immediately in front of her refocused Ingrid’s attention. Carrie Foster walked unsteadily toward the table. Behind her was the lawyer appointed by the embassy. Both women sat down at the table, tucking their chairs underneath. A close-up of Mrs Foster’s face filled the screen directly in front of Gurley. He stared at it without saying a word. Carrie Foster had clearly been crying. Her eyes were red and puffy, the skin around her nostrils raw. Ingrid glanced from the screen to Gurley. He seemed to have grown even paler. She still couldn’t shake the feeling he was holding something back from her. She hoped to God it wasn’t what she was beginning to think it might be.
Radcliffe and Tyson entered the room and sat down. DS Tyson then proceeded to switch on a digital recorder. He leaned towards it stating the date, time and persons present. Then he sat back in his chair and fixed his gaze on Carrie Foster.
DCI Radcliffe placed both palms flat on the table top. He pursed his lips.
“Whatever it is you’re about to say, don’t bother wasting your time,” Mrs Foster said. “I’ve told you everything that happened. There’s nothing more to discuss.” She narrowed her eyes, almost willing Radcliffe to snap back at her. To his credit, he merely slid his hands from the table and rested them in his lap.
“You have been arrested on suspicion of causing cruelty to a minor.” He glanced at the lawyer. “Further charges may follow. You understand how serious this situation is?”
“I have made my position perfectly clear. I have nothing to say to you.”
Given Carrie Foster’s distressed appearance, Ingrid was amazed the woman was holding it together so well. Maybe the team of solicitors the embassy employed were a little too good at their jobs. This one had clearly coached her client very well.
“Of course, as we stated earlier, and as your solicitor has no doubt reminded you, you do have the right to remain silent. But that might not be the best course of action. We have new evidence that we’d like to discuss with you.”
DS Tyson passed his superior a file.
“What new evidence?” Carrie Foster snapped. “I told you what happened. Kyle hurt Molly, then snatched Tommy and disappeared. And you still haven’t found them.”
“I haven’t been informed of any new evidence. It should have been disclosed ahead of this interview.” The lawyer nodded at the file in Radcliffe’s hands.
Gurley shifted in his chair next to Ingrid. “What did I tell you?” He shook his head wearily. “The man’s grandstanding.” Sweat had started to prickle along his hairline.
“You did arrive rather late, Ms Welland. Perhaps you’d like a few moments now to go through it? We can leave you to discuss it with your client if you’d like?”
“It’s OK,” Carrie Foster said. “I just want to get this over with. Whatever they have won’t change anything. I know what happened.”
The lawyer took the slim file from Radcliffe and opened it. It seemed to have only one or two sheets of paper inside. Carrie Foster hadn’t taken her eyes off Radcliffe’s face.
“I can’t imagine what you think you’re going to prove, but would you please hurry. I want to get back to the hospital. If anyone’s causing cruelty to a minor it’s you. Molly shouldn’t be in that place without me.”
“There are a few… issues we’re hoping you’ll be able to clear up for us.”
47
Ingrid noticed a flicker of emotion in the lawyer’s previously mask-like expression as the woman continued to read the notes within the file. Was it surprise, disgust or resignation? Carrie Foster didn’t seem to have noticed—she was too busy staring out Radcliffe.
“As I’m sure you know,” Radcliffe began, “a number of forensic samples were taken from your hotel room by our crime scene examiners. We have just received an analysis of the DNA tested from the various samples taken from the bathroom. Of particular interest are those recovered from the drain beneath the sink.”
Although the monitor Ingrid was staring at showed a close-up of Carrie Foster’s face, she didn’t react at the mention of the sink. Still the woman refused to look away from Radcliffe’s face. But her neck and shoulders definitely seemed to be holding on to a lot of tension.
“It took a while to separate out the various samples. The most interesting results relate to the fine filaments of hair we found.”
More tensing of Carrie Foster’s neck. She swallowed, visibly but silently.
“You see, the hair samples are definitely yours, Mrs Foster, as we might have expected. But the traces of blood we found clinging to some of those hairs are Tommy’s. Tommy’s blood on your hair—odd isn’t it? How do you explain that?”
There was a knock at the door of the interview room. A female detective Ingrid remembered seeing in the incident room appeared just within shot. She was carrying a clear plastic bag. An evidence bag.
“Ah, perfect timing, Alex.” Radcliffe took the bag from her and laid it gently on the table. He waited for the detective to close the door behind her before continuing. “We retrieved this from your handbag earlier today.”
Inside the evidence bag was a hairbrush. Just a regular hairbrush as far as Ingrid could make out, white plastic bristles, short blue handle. There were long, light brown hairs tangled in a clump at the base of the bristles. She wondered what it had to do with the evidence the police had found in the hotel bathroom.
“I’m surprised you didn’t try to get rid of it,” Radcliffe said. “I mean, given we didn’t find evidence of Tommy’s blood on any of the objects we retrieved from the room, and as his blood was attached to your hair, it wasn’t much of a leap to suspect your hairbrush might have been the weapon used to cause your son’s facial injuries.”
Carrie Foster set her lips in a hard line.
“Obviously we haven’t yet had a chance to analyze the brush for traces of blood, but perhaps you could preempt our findings, Mrs Foster?”
“I have nothing to say.”
“It’s the trace of Tommy’s blood we found that’s troubling me the most, as I’m sure you can imagine.”
Finally Carrie Foster tore her gaze away from Radcliffe and looked to her lawyer for support.
“My client is asserting her right to remain silent.”
“We know Tommy sustained injuries to his face—a split lip and a bloody nose. That much was confirmed by the A & E Department at St Thomas’. When we asked
you about them previously you seemed adamant that your son remained unharmed at the time Mr Foster took him from the hotel room. And yet, as I say, we’ve detected traces of Tommy’s blood in the drain.”
“No comment.” Carrie Foster stared down at her hands. She was clasping them together on the table, as if she were praying.
“Maybe you’ll feel more inclined to speak after we’ve analyzed the hairbrush. I mean, how would you explain any trace of Tommy’s blood on that?”
“You won’t find any. Why would you?”
“Oh I realize you must have cleaned it several times since Monday. That makes perfect sense. But you’d be surprised just how stubbornly small traces of DNA evidence can cling on to things. Fortunately we’ll also be taking samples from the inside of your handbag. I presume that’s where you shoved the hairbrush before you left the hotel room? Such presence of mind not to leave it behind. One might say it was calculated.”
Ingrid stared at the monitor showing a close-up of Radcliffe’s face. His expression seemed almost smug.
“Can we stop this now?” Carrie Foster turned to her lawyer. “I have nothing to add to my previous statement.”
“I’m afraid we have more questions for you to refuse to answer.” Radcliffe handed the evidence bag to Tyson, who hurried to the door and passed it to the female detective waiting on the other side for it.
“Perhaps you’ll feel more like talking if we shift to a slightly different subject,” the DCI said.
Mrs Foster frowned at him suspiciously.
“Tell me about the circumstances surrounding your husband’s departure from the hotel room.”
Her expression switched from suspicion to confusion in an instant. “He snatched Tommy and ran. What else is there to say?”
Radcliffe tilted his head to one side. “I mean his earlier departure.”
“After he hurt Molly?”
Radcliffe said nothing.
“He threw Molly onto the bed and rushed past me. He nearly knocked me over. I’ve already told you that.”
