by Eva Hudson
The clerk smiled back at her and returned to her desk. Ingrid answered the call.
“Agent Skyberg, US embassy.”
“Hello, this is the duty sergeant, calling from Holborn Police Station, I’ve been asked to inform you about an incident that happened earlier today at a hotel in Bloomsbury.”
Ingrid grabbed pen and paper from her desk. “Give me the details, sergeant.”
“I don’t have them all, this is a courtesy call, more than anything.”
“Give me what you got.”
“American family, husband went on the rampage, attacked his baby daughter and left her for dead.”
“Left her? Has he been apprehended?”
“No. He snatched his eight-year-old son and took the boy with him. He’s still on the loose.”
Ingrid’s pen remained poised over the notebook. “When did this happen? How long has he been out there?” She heard the rustling of paper.
“Haven’t been given an exact time—earlier this morning.”
“And what about the wife? Where is she?”
“At the hospital.”
“He attacked her too?”
More rustling.
“No, that doesn’t appear to be the case.”
“Is there someone else I can speak to who has more information?”
“Sorry, no, not at the moment. The bulk of the team are at the hotel. The rest are at the hospital.”
“Which hospital?”
The sergeant gave her the address and hung up.
Ingrid grabbed her jacket from the back of the chair and her purse from the drawer beneath the desk. Over the last eight months she’d gotten used to being the last to find out about incidents when they occurred, but had never received such limited information about a case before. She tried not to read too much into it, and headed for the door.
4
Ingrid parked her motorcycle on Chenies Street and walked three blocks north to the rear entrance of University College Hospital. Although she’d never before set foot inside the building during her eight months in London, she had often been struck by its appearance. It looked more like a skyscraper office block than a hospital: seventeen stories of tinted green windows and pearly white cladding towering over the intersection between Euston and Tottenham Court Roads. She supposed from the top few floors the patients must get a pretty impressive view of the whole of London.
A plain clothes detective was waiting for her just inside the entrance when she arrived.
“Agent Skyberg?” the muscular man in the cheap gray suit asked Ingrid as she glanced around the expansive reception area.
She nodded back at him. Unruly tufts of shortish dark blond hair stuck out from his scalp at different angles. His face was covered in stubble and the shirt beneath his jacket was a little crumpled. Ingrid suspected he’d had an unplanned early start.
“I’m Detective Sergeant Brad Tyson, I believe our duty sergeant has passed on the details of the case to you.” He guided her toward a wide corridor to the right of the entrance, three elevators on each side.
“Actually, the details were a little sketchy.” Ingrid saw no point in criticizing the duty sergeant’s reticence. She didn’t want her relationship with the investigating team to start off on the wrong foot.
“Let me bring you right up to speed, then.” After pressing the ‘up’ button of the express elevator he stood back and studied her face for a moment. “If you think that’s strictly necessary, in the circumstances.”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I’ve had the embassy’s role explained to me. I know when an American citizen is involved in a crime—victim or perpetrator—you like to keep an eye on the investigation, offer assistance, write your report, etcetera, etcetera.”
He had just made her job sound almost an irrelevance, but Ingrid did her best to ignore his dismissive tone. She said nothing, just nodded at him encouragingly so that he might actually get to the point.
“But with the Air Force so closely involved in this case, I suppose the US government is pretty well represented already.”
“Air Force? What do you mean?”
Before Tyson could answer, the elevator doors opened to reveal a crush of bodies crammed inside. Ingrid and the detective stepped to one side as the occupants started to pile out. Two or three were on crutches, a couple more, hooked up to IV machines, clutched packs of cigarettes in their spare hands. A man in a wheelchair trundled out at speed, without looking where he was going. Ingrid wondered how they’d all managed to breathe in such a confined space.
“It’s a very busy hospital,” Tyson said by way of explanation.
Ingrid and Tyson eventually managed to make it into the elevator, followed by another twenty or so people. Most of them were carrying bags of apples and grapes and a variety of less healthy snacks, with magazines and newspapers tucked under their arms. All of them had weary expressions on their faces.
During the ascent, Tyson made banal small talk and Ingrid played along, just as keen to be discreet. But once the elevator stopped at the eleventh floor and Tyson pushed a path to the front, Ingrid following in his wake, the doors had barely closed before she repeated her earlier question. Her tone more urgent this time.
“Tell me exactly who is involved in this investigation.”
“I assumed you knew.”
Ingrid now suspected the details she’d been given earlier weren’t so much sketchy as deliberately vague. “Let’s assume I know nothing at all and start over, shall we?”
“The US Air Force have sent one of their Security Forces officers.” Tyson headed down the stark white, brightly-lit corridor and Ingrid followed. The further they walked from the elevator lobby, the more she could detect the familiar aroma of every hospital she’d ever visited. It was a mix of sterilizing alcohol, disinfectant and something non-specific—a smell Ingrid always associated with illness and disease.
“You’re telling me the man we’re looking for is a serving officer?” she asked as they pushed through a set of double doors.
“First Lieutenant Kyle Foster, stationed at RAF Freckenham in Suffolk.”
“And exactly what authority does this Security Forces officer have?”
“I’ll introduce you to the Major shortly. He can tell you himself.”
“He’s already here?” Ingrid stopped walking, forcing Tyson to do the same. “You informed the Air Force before you contacted the embassy?”
Tyson looked at her indignantly, as if she were questioning his competence personally, rather than the protocol of the Metropolitan Police in general.
“We needed good quality photographs of Foster and his son. We had to contact the base first.”
“And you couldn’t inform the embassy at the same time?”
“You’ll have to bring up any complaints with DCI Radcliffe. He’s the senior investigating officer.” He started walking again.
“Wait a minute.” Ingrid wanted more information before she walked all over whatever relationship the military policeman had managed to establish with the investigating team. “How long has the ‘Major’ been here?”
Detective Sergeant Tyson slowly came to halt and turned to face her, an irritated expression on his face. “An hour or so, why?”
“You’ve given him all the facts of the case?”
“Only as far as we know them. We’re still waiting to speak to Mrs Foster to find out exactly what happened this morning.”
“You haven’t spoken to her yet?”
He took a step backwards and looked up at the ceiling, his irritation clearly mounting. “She’s been too distraught. Wanted to be at Molly’s side. In case she came round.”
“Her daughter’s still alive?”
Tyson narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t even know that?”
“I told you—the details I’ve been given are sketchy at best.”
“Molly’s sustained head injuries. She’s unconscious. Hooked up to so many machines you can barely see her
for all the leads and wires.”
“Is she going to be all right?”
Tyson shrugged. “Doctors can’t tell us that. Not yet.”
“I’d like to speak to Mrs Foster. She’s an American citizen. She needs to know the embassy will help any way we can.”
“You’ll have to go to the back of the queue. DCI Radcliffe’s going to interview to her soon. With Major Gurley.”
“The MP?”
“I think he prefers to be called a Security Forces officer.”
Ingrid didn’t give a damn what he preferred. As far as she was concerned all armed services cops were cut from the same cloth. “I want to be part of that interview.”
Tyson shook his head. “Not my decision to make—you’ll have to speak to the DCI about it.” He continued down the corridor, marching toward another set of double doors.
As Ingrid hurried to catch up she wondered just how much access DCI Radcliffe was planning on giving her. It seemed the Air Force MP had everything sewn up. She needed to make him understand just what the pecking order should be here.
Tyson pushed through the doors and pointed to a couple of chairs lined up against the corridor wall. “Make yourself as comfortable as you can. There’s a vending machine just through those doors. The coffee’s drinkable, but the tea is disgusting. And however desperate you get, don’t be tempted by the soup—croutons or not, it tastes like dishwater.”
“You really just expect me to sit and wait?”
The detective shrugged. “Sit down, stand up. It’s up to you.”
“Take me to the SIO—I need to speak to him.”
“He’ll speak to you when he can. He’s tied up right now.” He tried to move past Ingrid, but she blocked his path.
“Tied up doing what?”
“I’m not sure that’s any of your business.”
“OK—where’s the Security Forces guy?”
“Major Gurley’s with the DCI.”
“Great—I can meet them both at the same time.” Ingrid hurried to the first door along the corridor and tried the handle: it was locked. She moved on to the second. “You could just tell me where they are. Save me interrupting someone else’s meeting.” Before she reached the second door, another, diagonally opposite, opened abruptly and a very tall man dressed in gray and white camouflage battledress stood in the doorway, his head turned towards the room. Ingrid rushed over to him. “Major Gurley?”
He spun around to face her. He was late thirties, with a tanned complexion and blond buzz cut. His features were chiseled, his jawline lean, his eyes pale blue. He wore a puzzled expression, but the quizzical smile faded once he glanced towards Tyson.
Ingrid stuck out a hand. “I’m Agent Ingrid Skyberg, from the FBI’s Legal Attaché program at the embassy. I’ve been assigned to this case.”
Bemused, his gaze switching quickly from Ingrid to Tyson and back again, Gurley shook her hand. “Pleasure to meet you, agent.”
He was joined in the doorway by an ashen-faced man in his early fifties dressed in a suit that looked far too expensive to afford on a cop’s salary.
Ingrid introduced herself again.
“DCI Paul Radcliffe.” His mouth twitched upwards at the corners. “I think you may have had a wasted journey.”
“This is a matter for the US Air Force Security Forces, agent. No need for the FBI to get involved,” Gurley said. “I’ve got it covered.” He gave her a warm smile. If it hadn’t been for the content of what he’d just said, Ingrid might almost have believed it was genuine.
She didn’t smile back.
“Now, I can provide you with an update each day, or a digest every forty-eight hours, if you’d prefer. Though I’d hope we can have First Lieutenant Foster safely in custody by the end of today.”
“Police custody,” Radcliffe added, either for Gurley’s benefit or hers.
“Of course,” Gurley turned his smile on Radcliffe. This time there was no mistaking its insincerity. Ingrid supposed the DCI wasn’t fooled by it for a moment.
“If you could excuse us, detectives.” Ingrid turned first to Radcliffe, then quickly to Tyson. She could be as polite as Gurley if that was the game he had chosen to play. She started to walk away. When the tall military policeman didn’t follow she said, “Major Gurley? If you have a moment?”
“Please—call me Jack,” he said and with two long strides was standing beside her.
“I don’t know whose orders you’re following, but after the Metropolitan Police Force, the FBI has jurisdiction. If anyone has had a wasted journey, it’s you. I’m sorry you’ve traveled all the way from Suffolk unnecessarily.” She forced a smile. “Naturally, I can give you regular updates.”
“There seems to be a misunderstanding here. I’m sure a short phone call to the chief of the FBI program at the embassy can clear everything up for you. My orders come direct from the Pentagon,” Gurley said.
“I believe the misunderstanding is yours, Major.” Ingrid was doing her best to tamp down her rising anger. How dare he patronize her like this? Who the hell did he think he was? As she reached into her purse for her cell phone—she was more than willing to ‘clear things up’ at the embassy—a woman in a dark blue pant suit pushed through a set of swing doors into the corridor. She rushed over to the two detectives.
Ingrid edged a little closer to them.
“The ICU team have taken Molly down for another scan, sir,” the woman said. “Mrs Foster can give you twenty minutes.”
5
Ingrid hurried to the detectives, eager to make her case before Gurley did. “I’m sure you won’t have a problem if I sit in on the interview, chief inspector,” she said. “In a purely observational capacity, of course.”
Radcliffe looked at the MP who was standing with his feet wide apart, his long arms folded across his chest.
“Major Gurley and I have a few wrinkles to iron out in terms of exactly who has authority here, but I wouldn’t want you to delay your interview on our account,” Ingrid quickly said before Gurley had a chance to respond.
“Just as long as you do. I don’t really care which one of you represents the US government, but keep your personal quarrels out of my investigation.”
“Absolutely.” Ingrid nodded toward Gurley, who managed to dip his head in agreement.
“I don’t want a peep out of either of you, clear?”
“Crystal,” Gurley said.
Radcliffe led them down another corridor, stopping when he reached a uniformed officer standing beside a closed door with a notice above it that read, ‘ICU Room 4’.
“Everything all right, constable?” the DCI asked the squat man wearing a dark blue stab-proof vest over his uniform.
“Nothing to report, sir. The team got Molly out and away without incident. PC Lewis has accompanied her to the MRI room on the first floor.”
Ingrid noticed the officer had a night stick, pair of cuffs and Taser attached to his belt. “You’re guarding the little girl?” she asked Radcliffe. “You think Foster is likely to come back and try to attack her?”
“I’m not taking any chances.” He opened the door and let the female detective enter the room first.
Ingrid followed close behind them. The room was bright—sun streamed in from a large window to the right of the door. Opposite the door, next to a collection of monitors, was a vacant space where Molly’s bed must have stood just a few minutes earlier. Somehow the emptiness felt more distressing to Ingrid than the sight of a small child lying unconscious in a hospital bed. She looked away toward the window and focused on the woman standing to one side of it. She was wearing a light blue and yellow summer dress, a bright orange sweater wrapped across her shoulders. She gave the impression of someone who had dressed in a hurry, which was hardly surprising, Ingrid thought, given the circumstances. The woman turned slowly away from the window and seemed to recoil as she took in the scene at the door. Seeing a group of people standing there, including one in military uniform, must have been a littl
e overwhelming for her.
The female detective, who Ingrid supposed was the Fosters’ family liaison officer, hurried to Mrs Foster’s side and held her arm as she led her to a large recliner armchair in the corner of the room. Ingrid saw Foster’s face for the first time and noticed her eyes were bloodshot, her cheeks blotchy. She couldn’t have been older than thirty-five. The woman slowly eased herself into the chair and continued to stare at the group standing awkwardly just inside the room.
“You’d better get on and ask your questions,” she said, her voice shaky. “As soon as they bring Molly back from her scan I want you all out of here.”
DS Tyson ducked out of the room. He returned moments later carrying a chair in each hand. He set them down opposite the armchair, as the family liaison officer introduced both detectives to Mrs Foster. She glanced toward the door, at Ingrid and Gurley, a deep frown etched into her forehead. DCI Radcliffe introduced Ingrid. Then Gurley.
“And Major Gurley you already know, I presume,” he said.
Carrie Foster nodded at them both but wouldn’t make eye contact. “Can we please get this over with?”
Radcliffe and Tyson sat down, leaving the FLO to crouch beside Mrs Foster’s chair. Gurley leaned against the wall next to the window, Ingrid stood behind the two detectives.
“We’ll be as swift as we can,” Radcliffe told Mrs Foster. “Our main priority is getting Tommy back. We need to locate your husband as soon as possible. But we really need to know exactly what happened this morning, to get some idea what we’re dealing with.”
Carrie Foster opened her eyes wide, her gaze fixed on the ragged Kleenex she was holding.
“First off, do you mind telling me why you’re here in London?” Radcliffe asked.
The woman looked up at him, a puzzled expression on her face. “It was a mini-vacation. Sightseeing, you know? Apart from our trips home, it was the first time we’d left the base.” She shook her head. “I should never have agreed to it. It was way too stressful to take on something like that.”
“For you?”
“No! For Kyle. All of us crammed into that small hotel room.” She wiped her nose with the disintegrating Kleenex. “The kids were overexcited. Really noisy, you know?”