Deep Hurt

by Eva Hudson

  Then something barreled into her at speed. The beam of light bounced around the room for a few moments then went out. Weak punches hit at her lower back, followed by kicks to her calves.

  “Daddy’s right! Stop telling lies!”

  “Tom-my!” Her voice cracked between syllables.

  “Stop lying.” Even though the boy’s punches and kicks weren’t doing any real damage, they were making it much harder for her to contain Foster.

  “Mommy didn’t hurt Molly. You’re telling lies. Stop it!” The punches came faster and harder for a few moments then eased and gradually stopped. The boy had exhausted himself. He slumped onto the ground. “It’s naughty to lie. Mommy didn’t hurt Molly.” He started to cry.

  “It’s OK, Tommy,” Foster said. “Everything’s OK. I’m sure Mommy didn’t mean to hurt her.”

  “Listen to your dad.”

  Tommy punched her weakly behind her knee. “Let Daddy go!”

  Foster wasn’t offering any resistance. Ingrid was tempted to release him. “What I said before, it was true. Carrie told the police it was an accident.”

  “That’s true. It was an accident,” Tommy said, then sobbed again. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.” He slid past Ingrid’s feet and wrapped himself around his father’s legs. “I just wanted to stop her screaming. She was making Mommy cry. She makes Mommy cry all the time. I didn’t mean…” His voice was swallowed up by the sobs erupting from his throat, coming faster and louder with each snagging breath he took.

  “What?” With his right arm Foster pulled against Ingrid and tried to reach down to his son. “What did you just say?”

  Ingrid tightened her grip.

  “For God’s sake, let me hold my son.” Foster strained against her.

  “Where’s Yvonne?” Ingrid asked.

  “She’s supposed to be with Tommy.”

  “I ran away from her,” the boy said.

  Ingrid let go of Foster and stepped away, out of his reach. Foster dropped to the ground and gathered Tommy into his arms.

  “I’m sorry, Daddy.”

  “Shhh… there’s nothing for you to be sorry about.”

  “But there is. Molly was on the bed, screaming. Like she always does. I could hear Mommy in the bathroom, crying. I told Molly to be quiet. But she wouldn’t. So I grabbed her and shook her a little. But she screamed louder. So I shook her some more… I think maybe she hit her head on the back of the bed. I just wanted to…” His voice trailed away.

  “It’s OK. It’s all right, Tommy,” Kyle said in a soothing voice.

  “That’s when Mommy hit me. I let go of Molly then and I hit Mommy back. I punched her in the leg. She shouldn’t have hit me. I was just trying to help. I didn’t want to hurt anybody.”

  For the next few moments the only sound that echoed around the room was Tommy’s violent sobbing.

  “He’s lying,” Foster said eventually. “Trying to help his mom. He wouldn’t hurt his baby sister. He’s a good boy.” Clearly Foster couldn’t believe what his son had just admitted. His voice was shaky, uncertain.

  Even in the dark, just from the sound of their breathing, Ingrid could tell Foster was squeezing the boy tighter to him.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt her so bad. It was an accident.”

  “Shhh, you don’t know what you’re saying. Be quiet.”

  “I’m sorry, Daddy.”

  “It was Carrie,” Foster insisted. “It had to be. Molly was just lying so still in Carrie’s arms when I got back to the room. But she can get help, right? She’s been depressed. That will be taken into account, won’t it? Temporary insanity. The stress… the depression she’s been suffering from…”

  “I’m sorry,” Tommy said again between sobs.

  “Shhh… I’m not going to lose him,” he told Ingrid. “He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

  Ingrid knelt down next to them. “You won’t lose him,” she said firmly. “That won’t happen. Tommy’s only eight years old.”

  “So? He’s old enough to be prosecuted. I can’t have him go through that.”

  “He doesn’t have to. He’s too young.”

  “You think I’m going to believe you?”

  “It’s different here than back home. The age of criminal responsibility in the UK is ten years old.” She lowered her voice and leaned closer to Foster’s head. “The police can’t even arrest him.”

  “What?”

  “I swear.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I wouldn’t lie about something like that.”

  “Why should I trust you?”

  “I can call a lawyer right now, if you help me find my cell.”

  53

  A brilliant white light shone in Ingrid’s eyes. She held up a hand to shield them from the glare and managed to make out Yvonne Sherwood heading towards them from the doorway, glowing cell phone in one hand, broken brick in the other.

  “I’m sorry, Kyle,” Sherwood said. “Tommy managed to wriggle out of my arms and run away. He knocked my phone from my hands. It took me a while to find it in the dark.” She glared at Ingrid. “Is everything all right?”

  “It’s fine,” Ingrid answered.

  “Kyle? What’s happened? Why’s Tommy crying?”

  “It was an accident. I didn’t mean to hurt her,” Tommy sobbed.

  “It’s OK, Tommy. It’s OK. Shhh…” Foster wrapped his arms around his son more tightly, burying the boy’s head beneath his jacket. “Carrie didn’t do it,” he told Sherwood. “She didn’t hurt Molly.”

  The woman seemed bewildered. “I don’t understand. If Carrie didn’t—”

  “It was Tommy,” Ingrid said.

  “Kyle?”

  “He just said he was trying to make Molly stop crying. He shook her.” There was still a tremor in Foster’s voice.

  “Dear God.”

  “She says he’s too young to face any charges,” Foster said, looking at Ingrid. “Do you know if that’s true?”

  Sherwood shrugged. “Might be. It rings a bell.”

  “How about you get rid of that brick?” Ingrid said, pointing at the potentially lethal weapon in Sherwood’s fist. “Then maybe you can help me find my phone and Tommy’s flashlight. We need to get out of here.”

  After locating the two dropped items from the rubble-strewn floor, Kyle Foster gathered his son into his arms and they slowly picked their way across the room. They exited via another corridor and left the building using a different doorway, emerging onto a street on the north side of the derelict warehouse. Sherwood hurried ahead of them to her silver Nissan parked on the other side of the road.

  Ingrid sat up front with Sherwood, while Kyle cradled Tommy in his arms on the back seat.

  “Are we driving back to the base?” Sherwood asked, peering into the rear-view mirror.

  “I want to visit the hospital, see Molly,” Foster said. “Show Tommy his sister’s going to be just fine.”

  Ingrid hoped to hell he was right. “I should call some people,” she said. “That OK with you, Kyle?” When he didn’t answer right away, she twisted in her seat to see him nodding at her, tears streaming down his face.

  Ingrid found Gurley’s number in her phone. “Jack?”

  “What the hell is happening?”

  “We’ve cleared the building. Everyone’s just fine. I need you to meet us at the hospital.”

  “What went down in there?”

  She gave him a quick account of what Tommy had admitted then hung up before he could ask her questions. Next she called DCI Radcliffe and repeated the same account.

  “You believe him? You don’t get the impression he’s been coached to admit hurting his sister by Foster?”

  Ingrid couldn’t believe quite what a cynical bastard Radcliffe was. “I’m certain it’s genuine. We’re heading for UCH.”

  “We’ll need to take a statement from him.”

  “Sure. Just not tonight, OK? The kid’s exhausted.”

  Radcliffe r
eluctantly agreed, then hung up, just moments before Ingrid’s cell finally ran out of battery.

  *

  Ingrid, Yvonne Sherwood and Carrie Foster’s family liaison officer stood discreetly beside the door in Molly’s hospital room as the little girl giggled and gurgled at the faces her big brother was making at her.

  “See?” Sherwood said. “I told you he couldn’t hurt either of them. He’s a good dad.”

  “Maybe Carrie’s a better mother than either of us have given her credit for too,” Ingrid said.

  Sherwood didn’t comment.

  After fifteen minutes, the ICU nurse ushered them all out of the room, insisting they let Molly sleep. Sherwood and the FLO took Tommy in search of something to eat while Ingrid stayed with Kyle Foster just outside the room.

  “I think she’s going to be OK,” he said.

  “Tomorrow morning you can speak to the doctors.”

  “When I saw Molly in Carrie’s arms… in the hotel room, she wasn’t moving. I just assumed that she was dead, that Carrie had… Carrie’s been so down for so long now. I thought… I guess… I just had to get Tommy away from her.” He rubbed the back of his hand against his forehead. He looked like he hadn’t washed for days, his fingernails and knuckles were grimed with dirt.

  Twenty yards or so down the corridor the double doors swung open. Carrie Foster, accompanied by DS Tyson, walked unsteadily towards them. Kyle Foster looked at his wife as she approached, but didn’t move.

  “I should go, give you a little time together,” Ingrid said quietly.

  “No, please stay.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not sure I’m ready to speak to her. A little support would be appreciated.”

  Carrie Foster quickened her pace. “I want to see Molly. And Tommy,” she said as she got closer to the room.

  “The nurse said Molly should rest for a while,” Ingrid told her.

  “Where’s Tommy?” she asked.

  “Getting something to eat. He’s all right,” Ingrid said. “Shaken, tired, but he’ll be just fine. The FLO and Yvonne are with him.”

  After a long moment, Carrie Foster shifted her gaze from Ingrid to Kyle. She swallowed. “I’m sorry, Kyle.”

  They both turned toward the door of Molly’s room and peered through the porthole window, saying nothing.

  After a while Kyle Foster broke the silence. “Why did you tell the police I hurt her?” His voice was no more than a whisper.

  Carrie Foster didn’t answer.

  “How could you do that?”

  “I didn’t know what else to do. I had to protect Tommy.”

  Kyle Foster shook his head. “So did I.”

  “I panicked. I’m sorry. I should have told them I was responsible right from the start. But I wanted to stay with Molly. If I’d said I’d hurt her they would have taken her away from me. When I saw that EMT staring at you in the hotel room, he had such a suspicious look on his face… the idea of blaming you was the first thought I had. It seemed the easiest option. I couldn’t tell them what really happened.”

  “But you could have told me. We’d have worked something out.”

  “And what? Have the police arrest Tommy?”

  “He’s too young to be arrested.”

  “I didn’t know that. You think I would have let all this happen if I knew that? You’ve got to believe me—I thought I was doing the best thing for everyone.”

  “Jesus, Carrie. You know how much I love them. How could you tell people I hurt them?” He sniffed. Tears were streaming down his face again.

  “Why did you take Tommy?”

  “What?”

  “Maybe if you hadn’t taken him… if you hadn’t run…”

  “I thought Molly was dead. Tommy had blood on his face… I had to get him away from you.”

  “I didn’t mean to hit him. All I could think about was stopping him hurting Molly.” She looked down at the floor. The expression on her face slowly turned from one of remorse to something closer to indignation. She stared up at her husband. “You really thought I’d killed Molly?”

  “What else was I supposed to think? Especially when you blamed me for it.” Kyle Foster glanced at Ingrid. She wasn’t sure what it was he might want her to say, but there was no way she was getting involved. She started to back away.

  “I told you already,” Carrie said, “blaming you seemed the easiest option. The longer it went on, the more impossible it was for me to change my story. I was terrified of losing Molly.”

  “Me too.” He stared through the window into Molly’s room. “What did the doctors tell you? Is she going to be all right?”

  “They’re hopeful. She’ll need more scans. She’ll have to be monitored closely, but it’s looking much better than it was.”

  “Thank God.” He wiped his cheeks dry with the sleeve of his jacket. “The police need to interview Tommy. We should both be there when they do. He needs his mom and dad right now.”

  “Of course.” She swallowed. “I want to try to put things right, Kyle.” She reached out a hand, but he pulled away. “Tell me you want that too.”

  He shook his head. “Right now, I just care about the kids, OK? I’ll do what I have to for them.”

  Carrie Foster took a deep breath. “There’s something else I need to tell you, about Molly. Something you should hear from me, before you speak to the doctors.”

  “About her diagnosis?” He sounded panicked.

  “No—nothing to do with her condition. Something else.”

  Ingrid had been slowly edging away from the couple, now she turned around and hurried along the corridor. There was no need for her to witness Kyle’s reaction to the bombshell his wife was about to drop. She needed to get to Gurley, head him off at the pass before he came blundering in. As she approached DS Tyson, who’d been keeping a respectful distance, she nodded and said, “Been a long week, hasn’t it?”

  The detective nodded back at her, his gaze fixed on the Fosters, a grim expression on his face.

  “What’ll happen to Tommy?”

  Tyson hesitated before answering. “He’ll need to make a formal statement. Then he might be given a Child Safety Order.”

  Ingrid looked at him blankly.

  “If he is, he’ll be placed under the supervision of a youth offending team. But that sort of approach is designed for persistent offenders. I’m not sure it can even be applied to foreign nationals. It’s all a bloody awful mess, the whole thing.”

  Ingrid wasn’t about to argue with his assessment.

  Along the corridor, the double doors swung open again and Jack Gurley appeared, his face gray, his posture slumped. He looked like a defeated man.

  “How’s it going with the big reconciliation?” Gurley gestured in the Fosters’ direction.

  “Not great and I’d say it’s about to get a whole lot worse,” Ingrid said and quickly walked Gurley back through the doors. “I think Carrie is about to tell Kyle about Molly.”

  Gurley stopped. “Shouldn’t I be around for that? To support Carrie? If Kyle wants to throw a punch at me, maybe I should let him.”

  “You really think Molly is yours?”

  He nodded, letting out a long sigh. “I’ll take a DNA test—prove it one way or the other. Maybe afterwards I should ask for a transfer back home.”

  “Shouldn’t you stick around? For Molly’s sake?”

  “That’s not up to me. I’ll do whatever Carrie wants me to.”

  Ingrid wondered at Gurley’s reluctance to get involved. He didn’t seem like the sort of man who would run away from his responsibilities. “What did you do with the pistol?” she asked, keen to change the subject.

  “It’s in the glove compartment of the car. Don’t worry—I’ll deal with it, make sure no one can blame it on Foster.”

  “Good.”

  “I screwed up. Least I can do is put it right.” He stuck out his hand. “Pleasure working with you, agent.” He gave her a wry smile.

  Ingrid took h
is hand in hers. “Likewise.” It wasn’t exactly a lie, but she wouldn’t be in a hurry to repeat the experience. “But you’re not quite free of me yet.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “There’s the whole Bureau debrief ordeal to get through.”

  “They need me for that?”

  “Afraid so.”

  He shrugged. “Listen, that little chat I had with the chief, about getting you taken off the investigation?”

  “It’s OK—I won’t bear a grudge.”

  He smiled at her again then led the way toward the elevators. “How about I buy you that pizza I promised you? Prove there’s no hard feelings?”

  “I’m real tired. Let’s take a raincheck on that, shall we?”

  He smiled again, his face a picture of relief.

  54

  The next day Ingrid didn’t stir from her bed until noon. She hadn’t set an alarm, assuming the bright morning light that streamed into her bedroom would wake her. But she’d slept right through. As she sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, she wasn’t sure the extra hours of sleep had been at all restorative. It felt a little shameful sleeping in so late. She reached down and grabbed her phone from the floor and discovered she’d missed a dozen or so calls. She quickly flipped through the list of text messages and worked out who she should call first.

  Just as soon as she’d drunk her first cup of coffee.

  As she staggered blearily into the kitchen, she listened to a long, rambling voice message from Ralph, telling her how relieved he was that she was safe and asking if she’d perhaps like to meet later, if she was feeling up to it. Ingrid saved his message, smiling stupidly at the phone, surprised at just how much the idea of seeing him appealed to her. She sent him a quick text message, promising to call later.

  Then she made coffee.

  Just as she was finishing her second large mug, sitting cross-legged outside on the roof terrace, her phone started to ring. It was an international call. Her mother or Mike Stiller. She wasn’t sure right now if she wanted to speak to either of them. She drained her coffee and hit the answer button.

  It was Mike. For him to be calling her this early D.C. time on a Sunday, it had to be something serious.