by Eva Hudson
“You’re suggesting we track him on foot, like stalking a deer or something?”
“It might come to that. Nothing wrong with being prepared.” He set off down the corridor for a few steps then hurried back again. “Jennifer? Where should I head for a camping supply store in this city?”
Jennifer frowned at him. “Try Selfridges—on Oxford Street. They sell pretty much everything.”
“Is that on the Tube?”
Ingrid found the location quickly on her GPS app. She showed Gurley. “It’s just a few blocks away.” He stared at the route for a few seconds, nodded his thanks, then disappeared back out the door.
“What do you make of him?” Jennifer whispered, staring at the vacant doorway.
“I really don’t know.” It was true. Ingrid had assumed he was an unfeeling, tough, arrogant son of a bitch. But he’d shown a different side with Jennifer just now. Maybe she needed to keep an open mind.
Jennifer returned to her mammoth task and Ingrid sat at her desk, hating the fact that all she could do right now was wait for information. From Jennifer’s inquiries… from the police… She blinked. There was some other information that she’d already waited far too long for. She shoved her purse over her shoulder, pulled her jacket from the back of her chair and told Jennifer she was going for a walk to clear her head.
15
As Ingrid waited for Mike Stiller at FBI HQ to pick up, she soon discovered she was headed not to the main entrance of the embassy as she’d previously intended, but downstairs toward the underground parking lot. Somehow, on autopilot, her brain had found something useful for her to do while she waited for more news. The call to Mike diverted to his voicemail and she left a terse message.
She was climbing off her Triumph Tiger 800 outside the Fosters’ hotel off Russell Square less than fifteen minutes later. She swapped her motorcycle helmet for her purse and locked the box on the back of the bike. Her cell started ringing as she ran up the front steps to the entrance. The call displayed on the screen was an out of area number. An international call. She hoped it was Mike Stiller calling back and not Svetlana on a mission to guilt trip her.
She answered and waited.
“Ingrid? Are you there?” Mike sounded tetchy.
“Did you find anything for me?”
“Not much. I was going to call when I had more information. They found three women in the property, two in their twenties, the third they’re guessing is in her thirties.”
“Guessing? They don’t know?”
“If you let me explain all will become clear. Clearer, at least.” He took a deep breath. “So, two women have identified themselves. At present those IDs are being verified. They’re not from Minnesota, it’s taking a while to track down their next of kin.”
“What about the third woman?”
“I’m just coming to that.”
Ingrid skipped back down the steps and started to pace up and down the sidewalk.
“The third woman hasn’t said a word. She looks older than the other two, and has been there the longest. Neither of the other two women knows anything about her.”
“I need to get pictures of the third woman sent to someone in my home town—a lady called Kathleen Avery. She’d recognize Megan in a heartbeat.”
“You know the drill. It doesn’t work like that. Maybe the local feds can arrange for this Avery lady to visit the medical center the victims are staying at.”
“That’s not possible. Kathleen Avery hasn’t left her house since 1999.”
“What is she, sick or something?”
“It’s complicated. Ever since Megan disappeared her mother has suffered from agoraphobia. Plus she’s morbidly obese. She has serious mobility issues. For her, leaving home just isn’t an option.”
“Jeez. I don’t know what else to suggest.”
“There must be something the Bureau can do. What about a DNA test? They could take a sample from Kathleen, compare them with this woman’s.” Ingrid knew that eighteen years ago, taking DNA samples hadn’t been part of regular police procedure in a missing person case. If it had been, making a match now would have been straightforward.
“I’ll make some calls.”
“And what about the interviews? Can you get me the video recordings?”
“I’m still working on that. It may take a while.”
“Can you at least send me a photograph of the mute woman?”
“Sure. I’m attaching it to an email as we speak. But this is for your eyes only—at this stage I can’t have you distributing it to anybody else. Is that clear? I shouldn’t even be sending it to you.”
Ingrid’s breath caught in her throat. She wasn’t sure she’d recognize Megan after so many years. “Mike?”
“You get it yet?”
“I’m not at my computer—it’ll come through on my phone—I’ll look at it later. The woman who’s not speaking. Is she… heavy?”
“You mean like, morbidly obese?”
“Just heavy?”
“No. All three women were fed strict rations in captivity. Their abductor had specific tastes when it came to body shape and size. They’re all pretty skinny.”
“Thanks, Mike. You will keep me posted, won’t you?”
“Sure—don’t I always keep my word?”
“Eventually.”
“Harsh! Why do I continue to come to your rescue? You cruel woman.”
She appreciated Mike trying to lighten the mood, but she couldn’t manage an appropriate retort before she hung up.
As she navigated to the email app on her phone, her mouth became very dry. She found a half bottle of Evian in her purse and finished it. She stared at her phone, paralyzed with dread.
She couldn’t bring herself to look at the attachment. She wasn’t ready. Not yet. Not to see Megan’s face staring back at her after all these years. Instead, she hurried into the hotel.
DS Tyson was inside, chatting to the receptionist. Beyond him Ingrid saw several tables in the lounge-cum-bar area occupied by plain clothes cops interviewing a handful of guests.
Ingrid waited until the receptionist had to answer the phone before she approached Tyson. “Hey, detective, how’s it going?”
Tyson spun around and took a moment to respond.
“Agent Skyberg. From the US embassy?” Ingrid prompted.
“Oh I hadn’t forgotten you, believe me.” He peered toward the hotel entrance. “Where’s Lurch?”
“If you mean Major Gurley, he had business elsewhere.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Have your CSEs finished up?”
He nodded. “Just this morning. Hotel room door has been secured.”
“Made any new discoveries since yesterday afternoon?”
“You will be sent the forensics report when it’s ready, you know.”
“I can’t wait that long.”
The receptionist finished her call and Tyson led Ingrid away from the desk, past the groups of guests and cops and through to the empty dining room. He pulled out a couple of chairs and waited for Ingrid to take a seat.
“I thought you interviewed the guests yesterday,” Ingrid said and pointed toward the lounge.
“This is the mop-up operation. Mainly the people who weren’t around during the first round.” He looked at her expectantly.
“The forensics?” Ingrid reminded him.
“You know about the blood in the bathroom?”
Ingrid sat up straighter. “What?”
“Across the tiles above the sink. It was only a trace—someone had obviously tried to clean up. But they didn’t manage to get it all.”
“Has anyone questioned Carrie Foster about it?”
“Last time I heard, she’d been sedated.”
“Sedated?”
“She got wind of the impostor—whoever he was—getting into her daughter’s hospital room. She became hysterical, apparently. Can’t blame her. What if it was her old man come to finish poor little Molly off? Mak
es my skin crawl.”
“How is Molly?”
“She still hasn’t regained consciousness. But the doctors are hopeful.”
Ingrid didn’t know what a prolonged period of unconsciousness meant in terms of the child’s recovery. She decided not to dwell on the subject. “Did the CSEs find anything else?”
“Nope. It’s possible the trace of blood belonged to a previous guest—it all depends how well the staff clean the rooms, I suppose.”
Ingrid looked through the doorway into the lounge area. Most of the guests had completed their interviews and were starting to leave. Except for one. A purple haired senior was leaning forward in her chair. She’d grabbed the detective’s arm sitting opposite her and was squeezing it hard.
“She seems to have something to say for herself.”
Tyson followed her gaze. “We haven’t gleaned much so far from the other guests. No one seems to have spoken to the Fosters. I think people prefer to keep themselves to themselves in such an intimate sized establishment.”
Ingrid rose from her seat. “Let me know if this latest round of questioning uncovers any interesting information.” She pulled a business card from her purse and handed it to him.
“Sure, why not? It’s not as if I’m busy.”
“I really would appreciate it.”
He gave her a begrudging smile.
As Ingrid walked toward the dining room exit, the purple haired woman looked up at her. “Good afternoon, ma’am,” Ingrid said when she drew level.
“You’re American.”
“Yes, ma’am. From the US embassy.” She extended her hand. “Agent Skyberg.”
“Agent? That sounds official. Maybe you want to hear about what I saw yesterday. I’m not sure this young man is taking me at all seriously. It’s my age, I expect.” From the definite twang in the woman’s accent, Ingrid supposed she came from one of the Carolinas.
The woman struggled to her feet, grabbed Ingrid’s arm and led her away to another table. She sat down and encouraged Ingrid to do the same. “My name’s Merle Simmons.”
Tyson walked past their table and pulled a face at Ingrid behind the old woman’s back. She ignored him.
“I saw him, you know!” The woman’s voice came out in an excited whisper. “He was as close to me as you are now.”
“Do you mean Mr Foster?”
“Of course I do!”
“When was this?”
“Yesterday morning. I was on my way down to the dining room. It was clear he’d been too mean to pay the extra supplement.”
“I’m sorry?”
“For breakfast. He was carrying a large McDonald’s bag. Bringing back food for his whole family, I suppose.”
“What time was this?”
“Eight forty-five.”
“You’re sure?”
“Jim, my husband, and I go down to breakfast the same time every morning.”
“I mean you’re sure about the McDonald’s bag?”
“Why wouldn’t I be? Quite unapologetic about it too. He smiled right at me.”
“Perhaps I could speak to your husband, confirm the details with him?”
“You don’t need to do that, I’m quite in control of my faculties. Besides, Jim’s having his nap.”
“You didn’t see Mrs Foster or the children?”
“Not until we all watched the ambulance people take that poor little baby away.” She looked down at Ingrid’s hands. “Shouldn’t you be making notes? The policeman had a notebook, but once I’d told him what I’d seen, he didn’t seem to want to write anything down.”
“I have perfect recall.” Ingrid smiled and started to get up.
“Is that it?”
“Did you see anything else of the family yesterday morning?”
“Only what I’ve told you already.”
“Then I think we’re done—thank you so much for your time.”
“What’s happening with the little boy? Have you found him yet?”
“Not yet, ma’am, but I’m sure we will real soon.” Ingrid wished she could believe that herself.
She left the woman sitting in the lounge and went looking for Tyson. Why would a man who fled his hotel room in a panic, after shaking his baby senseless, return via the nearest McDonald’s? It didn’t make any sense. She was inclined to believe the old woman had been mistaken.
She found Tyson speaking to the receptionist again.
“You managed to escape her clutches, then?” he said, smirking slightly.
“A quick question. Did the CSIs find any evidence of a—”
“McDonald’s bag?”
“Yes—how did you know I was going to say—”
“I’ve just spoken to the DC who interviewed the batty old cow. No they bloody well didn’t find a McDonald’s bag. That old lady’s got a screw loose.”
16
Natasha McKittrick grabbed the last corn chip from her plate as Ingrid started to clear away the dishes. “Any more of that margarita in the fridge?”
“You just drank the last of it.”
“Time to break this open then.” McKittrick waved the bottle of tequila she’d brought to Ingrid’s for their now regular monthly Tex-Mex night. “I can’t believe it’s this late and you still haven’t given me what I came here for.”
Ingrid hurried into the kitchen with the dirty dishes to avoid what she knew was coming next. She probably should have canceled dinner with her friend, but after the frustrating afternoon she’d had—they still hadn’t come up with a fresh lead by the time she’d left the embassy after nine p.m.—she felt a real need to vent. Now McKittrick was trying to change the subject, Ingrid wished she’d canceled after all.
“You can’t escape that easily,” McKittrick shouted from the living room. “I mean, fascinating as your new case is—and you must admit, I have been listening patiently—I would like to move on to the main feature.”
Ingrid opened the ice box of the refrigerator and luxuriated in the cool air for a moment.
“You can run but you can’t hide.” McKittrick appeared at the kitchen door, waving the still unopened bottle of tequila in her fist. “I need shot glasses.”
“Maybe you should take it home with you.”
“Not until you tell me how your date with Mills went.”
“Coffee? Tea?”
“Come on. Spill.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Well he seemed pretty pleased with himself at work this morning, so there must be something.”
Ingrid opened a cabinet and retrieved two mugs. “I can’t imagine why. We had a bite to eat then said goodbye at Holborn Tube.”
“He didn’t come back here afterwards?”
“No he didn’t. Not that it’s any of your business.” Ingrid filled the kettle and flipped on the switch.
“I didn’t actually think you were serious about the tea.” McKittrick slid the unopened tequila bottle onto the kitchen counter. “What’s the point of being a matchmaker if I can’t even get to enjoy a bit of gossip now and then?”
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
Ingrid’s cell phone started to vibrate against the kitchen counter. She glanced at the screen, saw it was an out of area number and dismissed the call.
“That’s not Mills, is it?”
“Why do you care so much?”
“I’ve got to work with the grumpy old bugger. Do you know how miserable he’s been the last couple of months? When you agreed to go out with him he was like a changed man. Suddenly he was the most attentive detective on the team. Nothing was too much trouble.”
“So glad to have helped with morale.” Ingrid shoved the phone in a pocket.
“Was it Mills?”
“It was my mom.”
“I thought the two of you didn’t speak.”
The kettle boiled and Ingrid made them both a peppermint tea. “We don’t. Only in… special circumstances.” She dunked the teabag slowly in and out of the tall mug, staring at
the ripples she was creating on the surface of the water. A sudden, overwhelming need to talk about what was going on back home overcame her. “Have you seen the news reports about the three women who were being held captive in Minnesota?” she blurted.
“That’s one way of changing the subject.”
“I’m serious.”
“I’m vaguely aware of it. I try to avoid the news whenever I can. I see enough stuff to depress me at work, without exposing myself to it when I’m off the job.”
“The house where they were being held is just thirty miles from my home town. That’s why my mom keeps calling me.”
“Oh my God—you think one of those women is your school friend?”
Ingrid had told McKittrick about what happened to Megan on one of their drunken nights out, but only given her the sketchiest of details. Now she was regretting bringing the subject up. If she continued, she may never get to sleep tonight. “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
“How are you coping?”
“Mostly by trying not to think about it. But the memories keep worming their way into my head, no matter how hard I try to shut them out. Certain sounds and smells take me right back to the moment she was taken and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it.”
“Like your runaway pilot.” McKittrick peered into her mug at the darkening liquid. She shoved it across the kitchen counter.
“Pilot?”
“Sounds like you’re telling me you’re suffering from PTSD yourself.”
“It really doesn’t compare to Foster’s. According to his wife, any loud noise can trigger a reaction in him.”
“You mean like the crying of his own child?”
“I know—it’s tragic.” Ingrid took a sip of her tea, decided it wasn’t at all what she wanted, and threw the reminder into the sink. She opened another kitchen cabinet and retrieved a couple of shot glasses.
McKittrick grabbed the bottle from the counter and opened it. She poured out two measures. They both downed them in one and she refilled the glasses.
“That’s the thing that’s been troubling me about his meltdown,” Ingrid said.
McKittrick gulped down her second shot.
“Kyle Foster developed his PTSD long after his return from Afghanistan. He was flying search and rescue missions there. His symptoms didn’t show until after he started operating drones.”