by Eva Hudson
Ingrid silently cursed Gurley. He could have at least warned her one of his team would be speaking to Radcliffe. If she hadn’t needed a favor from the chief inspector she would have been tempted to find an excuse to hang up on him. Instead she’d need to beg for forgiveness. “I guess I got a little too involved on the ground to consider the bigger picture. I’m sorry. I assumed Major Gurley would inform you about the situation sooner. It was just a case of miscommunication.” The words sounded pathetic enough to her. She could imagine the look of contempt on Radcliffe’s face. “There is a bright side,” she added.
“Really?”
“Kyle Foster’s request for a safe passage for Tommy back to the US at least means the boy is still alive.”
“But we don’t know that for sure. Without concrete proof I can’t tell Mrs Foster.”
“What do you make of Kyle Foster’s request?”
Radcliffe didn’t answer right away. Ingrid couldn’t judge if it was because he was carefully considering her question or was too mad at her to respond. “The man is deluded if he thinks anyone will agree to something like that,” he finally said.
“But when he calls back, we should at least play along.”
“When he calls back I want to be part of the conversation. Do you understand?”
“Of course. Timely exchange of information. I won’t let you down again, chief inspector.”
“Make sure you don’t.”
Ingrid pulled the phone away from her face and puffed out a breath. Why did working with local law enforcement always have to be this hard? It was just the same Stateside. She put the phone back to her ear and did her best to stay calm.
“Why are you calling, anyway? Do you have another update for me?”
“I need a favor.” She paused a beat and braced herself for his response.
“Of course you bloody well do. I should have guessed.”
“Please—just hear me out. I’ve been working on a theory.” Ingrid hesitated. She hadn’t said it out loud to anyone yet, and she wasn’t sure just how screwy the idea would sound.
“Spit it out, for God’s sake—I don’t have all day.”
“I’ve talked to a few people now about Kyle Foster and they all tell me what a great dad he is. How they can’t imagine him doing anything to hurt his kids.”
“So what? We know he flipped. His PTSD got the better of him. Doesn’t matter how good a dad he’s been in the past.”
“But I’ve seen cases like this before. Usually the father wipes out the whole family then takes his own life. Why bother to take Tommy with him? Why get him treated at the hospital?”
“Why cause Tommy’s injuries in the first place?”
Ingrid sucked in a long breath.
Here we go.
“We don’t know for sure Kyle was responsible for hurting Tommy.”
“What?”
“Shouldn’t we at least consider the possibility that Carrie could have hurt him?”
Radcliffe didn’t answer, but Ingrid heard him expel an exasperated breath. “You’re basing this theory on what exactly?” He didn’t wait for a reply before continuing. “Nothing more than a few good words about Foster’s character?”
Ingrid hesitated again. She wasn’t sure whether she should bring it up, but Radcliffe clearly needed to be persuaded. “We searched Foster’s house,” she said, quickly.
“We?”
“Major Gurley and I. It’s on the base, Gurley has full jurisdiction.”
“And?”
“Hidden away in a dark corner of Carrie Foster’s closet was a bottle of vodka.”
“That’s the best you can do? So she likes a drink now and again.”
“Hiding booze? Surely that’s got to set alarm bells ringing.”
“Tell me you’ve got more than that.”
“Someone told me Carrie’s been having a hard time since Molly was born. The baby blues, they called it.” Ingrid waited for a response, but it didn’t come, so she plowed on. “Isn’t it worth investigating? Can we really just ignore the possibility Carrie might have hurt Molly too?”
“You’re very free and easy with the ‘we’ pronoun, aren’t you? Does Major Gurley agree with your theory?”
I don’t give a rat’s ass what Gurley thinks.
“I haven’t discussed it with him. I thought I’d run it past you first.”
“I’m honored.”
“I’d like to talk to the consultant at the hospital to discuss Molly’s injuries in detail. I was hoping you could arrange an appointment for me—it might speed the whole process up.”
“He’s a very busy man.”
“I’m sure he’d make the time if you convinced him how crucial it was to the ongoing investigation.”
Radcliffe let out another exaggerated sigh. “It’s too late to set up a meeting for today. And I want to make this quite clear—I’ll lead any interview with him. This is my investigation.”
“I know that.” Ingrid was determined not to apologize to Radcliffe again.
“I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know what I’ve managed to arrange.”
Ingrid was just about to hang up when Radcliffe said, “Molly regained consciousness half an hour ago.”
“She did? That’s fantastic.”
“I wouldn’t celebrate just yet. It’s not clear if any permanent damage has been done.”
He hung up before Ingrid had the chance to thank him for letting her know. She made her way back to the office, tapping Gurley’s number into her phone, to let him know the good news. She even had a little bounce to her step.
But as she reached the door of the office, she remembered the package her mother had sent, nestling innocently in her desk drawer.
A shiver went up her spine.
35
Ingrid was relieved to finally return home after her sojourn in Suffolk. She didn’t leave the embassy until after eight and was looking forward to a good night’s sleep in her own bed. Even though she had a feeling she was unlikely to get it. Not with Svetlana’s parcel sitting on the coffee table in the living room. She wanted to ignore it, to open it tomorrow. Or the next day. But she knew she couldn’t. She knew she wouldn’t be able to get any peace at all until she unwrapped the box and inspected each item inside.
First, though, she needed to get changed. She threw on some sweat pants and a baggy tee shirt and left her running shoes by the apartment door. After she had dealt with the package, she might feel the need to hit the well-lit and empty sidewalks of Maida Vale and St John’s Wood.
For a moment she pictured herself running across the street in Abbey Road. Her dad had been a big Beatles fan. He would have loved a photograph of her sprinting over the black and white stripes of the zebra crossing.
Her breath caught in her throat. She could go for days, or even weeks without missing her dad, but every now and then, a memory of him would catch her off guard and knock her sideways. How she wished he was still around. He’d know exactly what to say when she opened the Fed-Ex box.
Ingrid knew she couldn’t ignore it any longer.
She padded slowly into the kitchen, her feet feeling cool on the tile floor, grabbed a bottle of Finnish vodka from the freezer compartment of the tall refrigerator and a glass from the cabinet above the sink, and shuffled into the living room. She slumped down onto the couch and stared at the box in front of her. As she opened the icy bottle of vodka and poured herself a generous measure, she wondered how much of it would be left by the time she’d finished going through the contents of the parcel.
The perforated strip pulled off easily enough and the outer cardboard container peeled away to reveal exactly what she was expecting: a beaten up old sneaker box decorated with hand-drawn flowers and hearts on the lid and around the sides. Very gingerly she lifted one corner of the lid and slid it onto the table.
She took a deep breath and forced herself to look inside.
Lying on top, as if Svetlana had strategically positioned it there, and
despite the fact that the parcel had been air freighted all the way from Minnesota, was the most difficult item Ingrid knew she’d have to confront. Using just the tips of her fingers, she pulled out the photo booth strip of four color photographs. Each one was posed individually. Each one featured Ingrid and her best friend in the whole world. She and Megan were pulling faces, sticking out their tongues, tugging on each other’s braids and collapsing in fits of laughter as the final flash clicked.
Tears sprang into Ingrid’s eyes at the sight of Megan. Especially Megan laughing. The last time Ingrid had seen her face it had been contorted with fear. Tears streamed down Ingrid’s face. There was no stopping them. It was the effect Svetlana had probably been hoping for when she’d arranged the contents of the box. It must have taken a while for her mother to unearth it, buried in an unused corner of the basement.
But what did her mother hope would happen when the tears stopped? Did she suppose Ingrid would be calling her right away, desperate to speak to Kathleen Avery? Didn’t she know her better than that? She wiped her cheeks with the bottom of her tee shirt and dabbed at her eyes.
Dammit.
She wasn’t going to let Svetlana orchestrate her reactions from over 4000 miles away. She picked up the box and shook its contents to get a better look at what was inside without having to actually touch anything. She spotted two of her favorite mickey mouse hair grips, Megan had a pair just the same. Then she saw three large metal pins, one featuring Erasure and two decorated with images of a very young George Michael. To one side of those was a length of red and silver ribbon Megan had tied around one of Ingrid’s birthday gifts. She shook the box again to see, right at the bottom, wrapped in an almost translucent layer of tissue paper, a lock of Megan’s curly brown hair.
A sudden wave of nausea swept up from the pit of Ingrid’s stomach. She grabbed the vodka bottle and took a large mouthful, waiting for the burn of the alcohol to extinguish the taste of vomit at the back of her throat.
Ingrid had snipped off a lock of her own bright, almost white, blond hair and given it to Megan. They had decided exchanging locks of hair was a more meaningful and permanent gesture than mingling blood from cut fingers. They both agreed they should do something that would last forever.
Ingrid took another swig of vodka then slowly reached into the box. But she couldn’t bring herself to touch even the tissue paper that surrounded the lock of hair. She wondered if Kathleen Avery still kept Megan’s treasure trove contained within a shoe box. Whether she had seen the lock of Ingrid’s hair wrapped in tissue paper. The thought of Kathleen sifting through Megan’s prized possessions set off another deluge of uncontrollable tears.
When the tears subsided, Ingrid sat very still for a few moments, not quite knowing what to do next. Svetlana was probably waiting for her call. But there was no way she could speak to her mother the way she felt right now. She knew she’d say things she’d regret. She retrieved her cell from the coffee table and scrolled through her contacts list until she found Mike Stiller’s number. She hit the call button and waited, hoping she would be able to control any tremor in her voice.
“Hey, Mike. Tell me you have some news. I really need some good news. Tell me the DNA test has been arranged.”
“Are you loaded?”
“What?”
“You’re slurring your words.”
“I am not.”
“Have it your own way.”
“Well?”
“I don’t have any good news to share with you.”
“What is that supposed to mean? You have bad news?”
“I planned on calling you tomorrow. What time is it there now?”
“Tell me the news, for God’s sake.”
“The third woman started talking. She’s from Indiana, she’s twenty-nine years old. She claims her name is Brenda Lohan.” He paused for a moment. “I’m sorry, Ingrid. She’s not your friend.”
“What do you mean she ‘claims’ her name is Brenda Lohan?”
“The investigating agents think she may have lifted the name from a magazine they’d given her to read.”
“What?”
“They can’t find a record of any Brenda Lohan of the right age.”
“If she’s lying about her identity, maybe she’s made up the other stuff too.”
“A twelve-year-old girl went missing from Columbus, Indiana in 1995.”
“That was the year Megan disappeared.”
“Trust me—this woman is not her. Too much of what she said was accurate. About her home town, her school. Everything.”
“Except her real name.”
“After so many years, maybe she forgot her real name.”
“Yeah and maybe she’s lying.”
“It’s not your friend, Ingrid. I know you don’t want to hear that but—”
“I’m sorry, Mike. I have to go.” She hung up. She couldn’t listen to any more. She poured herself another large vodka and drained the glass. Finally she slumped back onto the couch, still clutching her cell phone. She wanted to tell somebody what Mike had told her. But she couldn’t tell Svetlana. Not yet. She scrolled to Natasha McKittrick’s number and called her. The call went straight to voicemail. She didn’t bother leaving a message. She went through the remainder of her contacts list. There were so few people she could share this with. She stopped scrolling when she reached the entry for Ralph Mills. He was a good listener. But could she really burden him with all of this? Could she risk being that vulnerable with him? They hardly knew one another. She hit the ‘call’ option before she could talk herself out of it.
He answered right away.
“Are you back from the wilds of East Anglia?”
“Uh huh. Listen, do you have a few minutes? I really need to talk something through with you.”
“Jesus, what’s wrong? You sound awful.”
“Do you have the time to—”
“I’m coming over.” He hung up.
Ingrid called him back. A phone conversation was one thing. But face to face? She wasn’t ready for that. The call diverted straight to voicemail.
Twenty minutes later the intercom was buzzing insistently in the hall.
36
Immediately after Ralph’s call, Ingrid drank another glass of vodka then brewed herself a strong coffee. She had just started to drink it when he arrived. She padded unsteadily from the living room to the hall, coffee cup in hand, concentrating hard on walking in a straight line. Although the room wasn’t exactly spinning, she was aware her senses were a little dulled. After what Mike Stiller had told her she should have been grateful for the sensation, but she needed to be alert enough not to let her guard down with Ralph. She didn’t want to risk doing or saying something she may regret.
As she slowly opened the apartment door she wondered whether it would be best to tell him to turn right around and go back home. But Ralph’s anxious expression took her by surprise. She tried to smile at him, hoping to prove he really didn’t need to be quite so concerned. But the muscles in her face refused to cooperate.
“It’s late,” Ingrid said, “I didn’t mean for you to come over. We both have work in the morning.”
“Actually, I don’t start until midday. I can stay up as late as you need me to.”
Should he really be staying at all? He followed her inside and closed the door. She stopped at the kitchen.
“Can I get you anything? A coffee? Tea?”
“A cold beer would be great.”
“Go on through to the living room. I’ll be right in.” Ingrid set her coffee cup on the counter and opened the refrigerator. She stood there for a while breathing in the crisp air, wondering again if she’d made a mistake phoning him. She would ask him to leave after he’d finished his beer, she decided. Before would just seem rude.
She shuffled slowly into the living room, bottle of Mexican beer in one hand, her coffee in the other, to find Ralph standing by the window looking out at the view south toward the center of town. She jo
ined him and handed him the beer. He clinked it against her mug.
“Cheers. Great view you’ve got up here.”
Ingrid’s apartment was only six floors up, from the end of the roof terrace she could make out some of the major London landmarks. She’d only moved in three months ago and the novelty of the view still hadn’t worn off.
“It’s my favorite thing about the place.”
“Beats my one-bedroom basement flat, that’s for sure. I really like the minimalist interior design.”
Ingrid glanced at the few items of furniture: the couch, the coffee table and the low, freestanding bookshelf on the other side of the room. “I guess I need to do a little shopping. All this stuff was already here when I moved in.”
Ralph took a swig of beer, then said, “So. Tell me what’s wrong.”
“It doesn’t seem so bad now. I feel guilty you’ve come all the way here.”
“No distance at all. Honestly. Any time you feel like you want to talk, I’ll be here.” He looked toward the couch. “Shall we sit down?”
He pushed off his shoes and curled his long legs under him as he sat down. He patted the leather couch with the flat of his hand. “Come on, sit down and tell me all about it.” As Ingrid lowered herself onto the couch she noticed Ralph was staring at the shoebox and its contents on the coffee table.
“What’s all this?”
Ingrid blinked. “It’s… ah… it’s…” Tears prickled her eyelids. Dammit. She couldn’t cry in front of him. She squeezed her coffee cup a little tighter, sucked down what she hoped was a silent deep breath.
“Bloody hell.” He slipped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her toward him until her head was nuzzling his neck. He smelled fresh, an aroma of soap rather than overpowering cologne. She liked it. She let herself be held for a few moments longer, then gently pulled away, her tears now safely under control.
“You remember a little while ago I told you I lost a friend when I was a teenager?” Ingrid said, aware she’d have to continue now she’d started, but not entirely sure how.
Ralph nodded and put his beer on the table. He twisted on the couch to get a better look at her.