Deep Hurt

by Eva Hudson

  He took a while greeting her, asking how she was, how her case was going, was she busy, could she speak, until she had to shout at him to tell her whatever it was he’d called her about. Still he hesitated.

  “For God’s sake, Mike, all this prevaricating isn’t actually helping. Just tell me.”

  Which was exactly what he proceeded to do for the next ten minutes. He spelled out in detail everything he knew, answering all of Ingrid’s questions, even when she interrupted him—which would normally have gotten him so mad he would have hung up on her—and spoke in such gentle tones, at times she wasn’t sure she was even speaking to the right man.

  When she eventually hung up, even though she’d exhausted all her lines of questioning, drawn out every last morsel of information Mike had for her, Ingrid still couldn’t believe what he’d told her. Or maybe she just didn’t want to believe it. She stared down at her phone, watching it shake in her trembling hand, and felt her throat tighten. She stood up and walked unsteadily to the edge of her roof terrace. She stared out at the view across London, imagining another vista, another view. One she hadn’t seen for many, many years. Maybe too many.

  She closed her eyes. She knew what she had to do next, but wasn’t sure if she was ready.

  After a little while she opened her eyes, wiped the tears from her face and selected a number from her contacts list. She took a quick, deep breath before Svetlana picked up.

  “Hey, Mom, it’s me. I hope I didn’t wake you.” She braced herself for a torrent of insults and abuse, but it didn’t come. Perhaps it was something about the tone of her voice, in those few words, that stopped her mother’s complaints about unanswered calls and ignored messages.

  Whatever it was, Svetlana simply said, “Tell me.”

  Ingrid swallowed and started to relay everything Mike Stiller had just told her. Unlike Ingrid, Svetlana remained quiet on the other end of the line, waiting for a natural pause in her daughter’s account before she asked her first question.

  “There can be no doubt?” she said, the inflection in the question suggesting she was hoping that there was.

  “The samples they tested matched enough of Kathleen’s DNA profile to prove the… victim is a close relative. As soon as they get a sample of Megan’s hair to test, everything will be confirmed for sure. They found her, Mom. They found Megan.”

  Svetlana didn’t say anything.

  “She was so close to home, all this time. So close and we never knew.” Ingrid was struggling to contain her tears. She pulled the phone away from her ear for a moment and sniffed sharply. “All these years I thought I could save her.”

  “Nobody could, Golubushka. Nobody.” Ingrid couldn’t remember the last time her mother used that name when she was talking to her. It sent a shiver up her spine.

  “Are you with Kathleen right now?” Ingrid asked.

  “No, I’m in the car on my way over to her house. I should call her.”

  Ingrid sucked in a breath. “No. Wait. Don’t do that. Let me.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I think it’s the very least I can do. But she shouldn’t be alone when she finds out. Will you call me when you get there, then pass the phone to Kathleen?”

  “You don’t even have to ask.”

  “We found her, Mom.”

  “I’ll call you soon. Will you…” She paused.

  “What is it?”

  “Will you come home now?”

  *

  After a painful, but thankfully brief conversation with Kathleen Avery, Ingrid managed to book the last seat on the final flight to Minneapolis for the afternoon flight the following day. Then she called Sol Franklin at home to explain the situation, grateful to get through the whole story without breaking down.

  “I hate to abandon my post, but I have to go back home. I’ll need a week or so.”

  “Listen to me, you take as long as you need. We can cover for you here. I’ll take on your caseload myself if I have to.”

  “I’m sorry, Sol.”

  “Nothing to apologize for—we’ll manage.”

  “I need to write up my report on the Foster case.”

  “I’ll speak to Major Gurley, I’m sure between us we can produce something to keep the chief happy.”

  Ingrid really did feel bad leaving a job half done. But doing the right thing for Megan Avery was more important than anything else.

  “Just tell me you’re planning on coming back,” Sol said.

  Ingrid hadn’t been thinking that far ahead. She’d just assumed she would return to London. But now Sol had actually raised the possibility she might not, the idea didn’t seem that outrageous.

  “Ingrid? You are coming back?”

  “Sure, sure.”

  “I’ll keep the job open for you as long as I can.”

  “Thanks, Sol. I’ll call you after the funeral, when I have a clearer idea of my plans. OK?”

  Sol paused before answering. “That’s fine. I know you won’t let me down.”

  Ingrid said goodbye and hung up, feeling unsettled by the conversation. She looked around the living room of her sparsely furnished, rented apartment. She really hadn’t personalized it at all. Did that mean in the back of her mind she hadn’t been planning on staying? She shook the thought from her head and jumped up from the couch. Now what? She’d been working flat out the past week and now had no clue what to do with herself. Instinctively, she headed for the apartment door and found her running shoes there. A long overdue run would make things feel a whole lot better. She strapped her cell phone to her arm, stuck her earphones in her ears and left the building.

  It wasn’t until she reached the Outer Circle of Regent’s Park, just a few dozen yards away from the official residence of the US ambassador, that she realized although her mind had been full of memories of Megan Avery during her run, not all of them had been painful. Thinking of her friend felt different somehow, but she couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was that had changed. Previously she had tried and failed to outrun her memories when they came, but now she seemed more able to face them.

  She stopped when she got to the entrance of London Zoo and called Ralph Mills.

  “Hey, Ralph.”

  “Hi.”

  “You got my text.”

  “I did.”

  “Good.”

  “Thanks for getting back to me.”

  Ingrid had never heard him sound so awkward. She had a feeling the conversation was going to be harder than she’d imagined.

  “Listen, about the other night,” he said, then stalled.

  “I’m sorry,” they both said together.

  “You have nothing to apologize for,” he told her.

  “And neither do you.” She let out a breath, relieved to have cleared the air. “How about dinner tonight?”

  “I was just about to suggest the same thing.”

  “Great. Pick me up at eight. We’ll eat local.”

  “Look forward to it.”

  *

  After dinner, which they spent talking about pretty much anything except the abduction case in Minnesota, Ingrid and Ralph strolled slowly back to her apartment. As they stood at the apartment door, and he leaned in to kiss her goodnight, Ingrid grabbed both his arms and dragged him over the threshold.

  “I really don’t want to be alone tonight,” she said, then kicked the door shut and carried on through to the living room, figuring that heading for the bedroom right away might just freak him out.

  They finished half a bottle of wine while talking about the Molly Foster case, until finally Ingrid had talked herself out. She put down her glass, got to her feet and, grabbing Ralph’s hand, led him into the bedroom.

  “You’re sure about this?” he said, as she started to slowly unbutton his shirt. “I don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage of the situation.”

  “Situation?”

  “You’re in a vulnerable place right now.”

  “Don’t you think we’ve moved beyond
that?”

  “I just want to be sure—”

  She put a finger to his mouth then kissed it. “Shut up, dammit.”

  The next morning, when Ralph left her apartment, his brown hair tousled, the left sleeve of his tee shirt ripped where she had tried to pull it over his head too fast, Ingrid was certain of one thing. She had definitely put her failed engagement to Marshall Claybourne firmly behind her.

  A new start was just what she needed.

  55

  Standing at the end of the snaking security line in Terminal 3 of Heathrow Airport, Ingrid was determined not to get emotional. Ralph had insisted he take her to the airport, and though she hated lingering goodbyes, after the night they had spent together, she felt unable to refuse him. With dry eyes, she grabbed Ralph’s face in both her hands, pulling his head toward hers, and planted a kiss on his partly open mouth. They stayed like that for a few moments before Ingrid tore herself away.

  “I’ll call you,” she said.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that sounded suspiciously like the brush off.”

  She smiled at him. He smiled his Clark Swanson smile back at her and she felt the inevitable adrenalin rush surge through her body. And it felt good.

  On the other side of security, as Ingrid was stuffing her belongings back into her backpack following a particularly thorough search by an officious security employee, her phone started to ring. She retrieved it from her purse and hit the answer option.

  “Hey, it’s Mike.”

  Ingrid held her breath. “Tell me they’ve got him.”

  “Sorry, not yet, but I just spoke to one of the local agents. They’ve got a reliable tip-off. They’re real hopeful it’s gonna lead to something.”

  “That sounds like the kind of thing I used to say to console family members.”

  “I’m not bullshitting you. I wouldn’t do that. They’re real close to a breakthrough, they told me. I believe them, I really do. And you know what a cynical sonofabitch I am.”

  Ingrid didn’t comment.

  “As soon as I get any more news, I’ll let you know.”

  “Thanks, Mike.” Ingrid hung up wondering if this time she could risk allowing herself to hope for the best.

  Before she proceeded to the departure gate, she made one more call.

  “Chief inspector.”

  “Agent Skyberg, so good of you to check in.”

  “I’m on my way back to the US, I haven’t had chance to—”

  “It’s all right, Sol Franklin has already informed me—a family emergency, I gather.”

  Ingrid swallowed. “SSA Franklin will be your main point of contact at the embassy in my absence.”

  “I’m sure we’ll muddle through without you.”

  “Can you tell me what happened when you interviewed Tommy?”

  “The boy was distraught, naturally. Clearly remorseful. The US Air Force have agreed to a program of extensive counseling, for both Tommy individually and the family as a whole. He’ll be monitored closely, of course, but our forensic psychologist believes this attack was a one-off incident.”

  Ingrid hoped they were right.

  “Have you heard from Major Gurley?” she asked the DCI.

  “I haven’t been able to contact him. I’ve been told by his superior officer that after his debrief he was assigned to another base.”

  “Here or in the US?”

  “That wasn’t entirely clear. Why?”

  “No reason.” Maybe Carrie Foster had suggested Gurley make the request for a transfer. She guessed it was something she’d never find out. “Thank you for the update.”

  “No problem. I hope your family issues are resolved soon.”

  It was a hope Ingrid hadn’t dared wish for herself.

  *

  She changed planes at O’Hare International and when she finally reached the arrivals hall at St Paul airport in Minneapolis, she spotted Svetlana standing at a low barrier, fidgeting with a pack of cigarettes.

  In the three years since she’d last seen her, Ingrid’s mother didn’t seem to have changed at all. Her hair was still dyed bright red and she continued to wear the wiry locks piled high on top of her head. For Svetlana, the Soviet gymnast look was clearly impossible to shake. Ingrid surprised herself by smiling at her mother as she approached the barrier. Svetlana didn’t seem to notice her own daughter until she was practically standing beside her. Two feet out Ingrid noticed her mother was wearing a pair of glasses on a chain around her neck. They were new. Perhaps she should try wearing them on her face instead, Ingrid thought.

  She waved right at her mother. Svetlana jerked to attention, looked Ingrid up and down for a few moments, then said, “You’ve put on weight.”

  As soon as they got into the car her mother switched on the local news radio station. “We might hear something new,” she explained.

  “Nothing about the perpetrator yet?”

  “Why?” Svetlana peered at her sideways, a suspicious look in her eyes. “You know something?”

  “I just heard the local agents might have a lead.”

  “They have leads all the time. Each one comes to nothing.” She started the car and they drove the next hundred and fifty miles without saying very much at all. But then there wasn’t really anything to say. Catching up on each other’s news didn’t seem appropriate in the circumstances.

  When they pulled into Kathleen’s drive, just after five in the afternoon, Ingrid was amazed to discover how little the exterior of the house had changed. It must have been repainted over the years, but always in the same color: light blue clapboards with bright white trim. She wondered if time had stood still inside the house too. As soon as she set foot over the threshold, she could see that it had. She supposed Megan’s room at the rear of the ranch-style single story building had remained untouched. She expected to find some sort of morbid shrine to her friend. The thought made her feel a little nauseous.

  She hesitated in the hallway.

  “Go on through,” Svetlana told her, slipping a set of keys into her pocket. “Kathleen isn’t going to rush out and greet us.”

  Still Ingrid felt unable to put one foot in front of the other.

  “She’s been talking about your visit non-stop since yesterday. For God’s sake, at least go and say hello.” Svetlana shoved Ingrid sharply in the back. Ingrid felt each one of her mother’s bony knuckles press against her flesh.

  She slowly walked into the living room, feeling all of fourteen again. The couch was pushed up against the wall on the left-hand side, just like it always had been. Kathleen Avery was sitting in the middle of it, her head turned toward the door. Suddenly her face broke into a broad smile.

  “Come over here, honey.”

  Ingrid let out a silent breath of relief. Kathleen wasn’t as big as she’d imagined. Morbidly obese, certainly, but it didn’t seem she was totally immobile. Ingrid edged toward the couch, staring at Kathleen’s flushed cheeks, her short light brown hair peppered with gray. She was wearing a long flowered smock dress over a pair of black leisure pants.

  “Don’t be bashful. Come sit right next to me.” Her voice was just the same, thick like molasses, with a sing-song quality about it. A sudden memory of Kathleen singing lullabies to them when Ingrid stayed over as a child jumped into her head. Something she hadn’t thought of in years.

  After more coaxing from Kathleen, Ingrid did as she was told and eased herself down onto the soft upholstery of the couch, sliding sideways into the dip that Kathleen was creating in the middle seat cushion. A heavy arm wrapped around Ingrid’s waist, pulling her further in. Kathleen planted a kiss on Ingrid’s cheek.

  “Don’t you smell all grown up?”

  Ingrid suspected it was the aroma of strong black coffee on her breath and the stink of Svetlana’s cigarettes clinging to her hair that was creating the impression of adulthood. The last time Kathleen had laid eyes on her she was still firmly stuck in an awkward adolescence that threatened to go on forever.


  Kathleen smelled the same as she always had: of sweet apples and fresh baked pastry. Immediately Ingrid was transported to the late eighties, sitting in the kitchen if this house, devouring a pile of pie and ice cream, wishing Kathleen was her mom and not Svetlana.

  Maybe she still did a little.

  Kathleen stopped squeezing her for a moment to point a remote at the forty-eight inch TV playing noisily on the other side of the room. “I pretty much have it on twenty-four seven—just in case there’s any news.” She looked toward the doorway at Svetlana who was hovering there.

  “I’m going to the backyard,” she announced. “I need a smoke.” She marched through the room, glancing at Ingrid as she passed. It was the first time her mother had displayed any hint of tact. She must have guessed Ingrid needed a little privacy to speak to Kathleen. Their phone conversation the day before had been very brief.

  “I guess you’ve been wondering why I haven’t come to see you in all these years,” Ingrid began.

  “We all have our own way of dealing with pain.” Kathleen wrinkled her nose, as if she was about to sneeze. Her eyes watered. “I’m not going to make any judgment about the way you dealt with yours.” She smiled weakly at Ingrid. “I’m not saying I wouldn’t have liked to see you. I’d have loved it, but I can understand how hard it was for you. I really can.” Tears fell from her eyes.

  “No—there’s more to it than that. There’s stuff you don’t know.”

  Kathleen sniffed and dabbed her eyes with a lilac lace handkerchief. “Is it something you really need to tell me?”

  Ingrid frowned into the woman’s flushed face and noticed the deep lines around her eyes and mouth for the first time.

  “I mean, it might very well be good for you to say what you’ve been keeping to yourself all these years, but do you think it would be good for me to hear it?” She wiped her nose with the handkerchief.

  Ingrid had to look away. She gazed down at the swirling pattern in the textured carpet. It seemed to move somehow, like waves on the sea. It made her feel a little sick. She felt Kathleen’s chubby fingers wrap around her hand. “I just thought I should tell you exactly what I remember,” Ingrid said. “What I did.” And what I didn’t do.