by Eva Hudson
“Pretty much ever since it happened I’ve been hoping that Megan would be discovered some day, alive. For a long while I fantasized I’d be the one to rescue her. But over time I realized that she was most probably dead, killed not long after she’d been abducted.”
Ralph held his tongue. Ingrid was grateful he had the sense to know not to speak.
“A few days ago, three women were discovered in a house just outside Jackson, Minnesota. That’s only thirty miles from where Megan disappeared.” Ingrid drew in a snagging little breath. She wrinkled her nose and swallowed, trying hard to keep fresh tears at bay. “One of the women couldn’t be identified. I found out tonight that even though she was abducted the same year, even though her description roughly matches Megan… Oh God… it’s not her. It’s not my friend.” Ingrid sniffed. “I knew it was a long shot. I knew that. But it didn’t stop me hoping.” She picked up Ralph’s beer and took a swig. Then she handed it to him. He hesitated before taking it. “I can get you another,” she told him.
“I think maybe you might need it more than me.” He put it back on the table. “And these things in the box, they’re from your childhood? They remind you of Megan?”
Ingrid nodded. “My mom sent them to me. I think she’s trying to make me feel so bad I’ll agree to do what she wants.”
“And what’s that?”
“For years she’s tried to bully me into having a long conversation with Megan’s mom, Kathleen. But I just can’t. I can’t face her.”
“You don’t want to relive it. I understand.” Ralph put his hand over Ingrid’s. His fingers felt warm and strong.
“It’s not that. I relive what happened most days. I can’t avoid it. A sound or a smell can trigger the exact same feeling I had at the time. The sickness in my stomach. The fear. The guilt I felt afterwards.”
“Guilt? It wasn’t your fault.”
“But it was.”
“Some sick bastard took her. How could you be to blame for that?”
“I ran. I thought she was right behind me. I was slow, but she was even slower. I abandoned her. If I’d stayed I could have protected her.”
“You have no way of knowing that. What if he was armed? He might have snatched you both.”
“But I ran. Don’t you get it? I didn’t look back. I just kept on running until I was so out of breath I couldn’t take another step.” An involuntary sob burst out of her mouth. She took a moment to recover. “It was only then that I turned around. And she wasn’t there. She wasn’t a few steps behind me. She’d gone. And it was my fault.” It was the first time she’d admitted that to anyone. Now she had, she wished she could take it back. What must he think of her? “How can I speak to Kathleen when it was all my fault?”
“You can’t keep saying that.”
Ingrid jumped to her feet. “Why not?”
“Because it’s not true. You were just a girl. You did the only natural, instinctive thing you could have done. You expected Megan to do the same.”
“But she was heavier than me. And slower. It wasn’t as if I didn’t know that.” She hurried over to the door that led out onto the roof terrace and unlocked it. She stepped outside and immediately the cool breeze enveloped her. August nights in London had been a lot cooler than she was expecting, but she was grateful for that now. She breathed in deep, expecting the tears to come again. But mercifully they didn’t. After a moment Ralph stepped out onto the roof. He reached her in a few long strides, wrapped his arms around her and held her tight.
“It’s not your fault,” he said again, whispering into her ear.
“But it is. How can I face Kathleen when I know what I did? What I didn’t do.”
Ralph squeezed her tighter. “I lost someone too,” he said, continuing to speak in a whisper. “I was even younger than you were when it happened. And for years afterwards I blamed myself.”
Ingrid pulled away from him so she could look up into his face. “Who?”
He shook his head. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. Totally different circumstances.” He started to chew at his bottom lip.
“Who was it, Ralph?”
He wandered over to the edge of the roof, looking out at the view. Ingrid followed him.
“Who, Ralph?”
“My sister.” He rubbed his eyes, keeping his face turned away from her. “She killed herself. I was the one who found her in the bathroom.”
Ingrid slipped her hand into his and interlaced their fingers. “I’m so sorry.”
“I was twelve. For years and years I thought that if I’d come home from school just a few minutes earlier, if I hadn’t messed around with my mates in the park first… I could have saved her.”
“But you stopped blaming yourself?”
He nodded.
“What changed? What made you think about it differently?”
“Another suicide. I was still a uniformed officer—it was just a few years ago. I was trying to convince a woman that she couldn’t have done anything to change the outcome. That if someone is determined to end their own life, there’s nothing you can do to dissuade them. Not in the long run.”
“And telling her that, you convinced yourself?”
“Not right away. Took a long time before I came round to that way of thinking.” He squeezed her hand and started to pull her toward the door. “Let’s go back inside. You’re shivering.”
Still feeling light-headed from the vodka, Ingrid allowed herself to be led through the door and back into the living room. Ralph sat her on the couch and disappeared into the hall. He came back a few moments later with the vodka bottle and two glasses. He poured two generous measures and forced a glass into Ingrid’s hand.
“I think you might need this.” He watched as she took a sip. He didn’t drink anything himself.
Ingrid leaned her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes. “Thank you for listening.”
“It’s what I came here for.” He put an arm around her shoulders, his hand caressing the top of her arm. “You can tell me anything.” He hauled her legs over his so that he was cradling her in his arms. He stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head.
Ingrid nodded, her eyes filling again. She raised the glass to her lips, trying to hide her face with it. Ralph settled back on the couch, his arm wrapped around her, his hand stroking her hair.
The insistent ring of Ingrid’s cell phone woke her. It took a moment before she managed to open her eyes. Her mouth was dry. She was curled up on the couch, wrapped in a woolen throw.
Alone.
She sat up quickly and wished she hadn’t. Her head started to pound. She found her phone by her feet. It was four-thirty in the morning. She recognized Gurley’s number and quickly swiped the answer button.
“They found the chopper,” he said brusquely.
“Have you any idea what time it is?”
“It was abandoned in a field in a place named Aylesbury—that’s only forty miles from central London. He’s come back to the capital. I was thinking maybe we should stake out the hospital.”
Ingrid ran a hand through her hair. She was barely awake. No way was she rushing to UCH on a hunch of Gurley’s at this time of the morning. “The location of the helicopter probably isn’t even relevant. Foster could be anywhere.” She tried to sit tall and straighten out the crick in her neck. Her whole body was sore as hell. “You should get some sleep. We’ll think about a strategy in the morning.”
“I’m not going to sleep until I have that sonofabitch locked in a cell.”
37
Ingrid was early for her meeting. She’d arranged with DCI Radcliffe to meet in the café in the main University College Hospital building. She grabbed herself a half decent Americano and sat at a table by the window hoping to see Radcliffe when he arrived. The café was busy, mostly occupied by patients and visitors, no doubt grateful to escape the wards and consulting rooms for a few brief moments.
With a quarter of an hour to fill, Ingrid’s mind naturally r
eturned to the events of the night before. Or rather, the non-events. After she’d put the phone down to Gurley, she’d discovered a hastily written note Ralph had scrawled on the back of an envelope, explaining how it had gotten late, she had fallen asleep and he thought it best to leave, in the circumstances. He’d signed it with his initials. It seemed a little formal, given she’d pretty much poured her heart out to him. Ever since she’d read it she’d been worrying something had happened that she had no memory of. Had she really been that wasted? The vodka bottle had been half full when she started drinking. When she woke up at four-thirty it was empty. Had she just passed out? What did he mean, ‘in the circumstances’? Had she said or done something embarrassing? Offended him, maybe?
She buried her head in her hands. She was driving herself crazy asking the same questions over and over. The more she tried to remember of the night, the more her brain stubbornly refused to recall anything more than the feel of his hand on her hair. Or the smell of his skin.
Good God. Had she blown her chance of starting something serious with the only man she’d met in a long time that she actually gave a damn about?
She retrieved her phone from her purse, and, not for the first time that morning, scrolled to his number in her contacts list. Her finger hovered over the call option.
She couldn’t do it.
Instead she called Mike Stiller.
“Jesus, Skyberg. It’s not even seven a.m. What’s the matter with you?”
“Are you seriously telling me I woke you up?”
“As it goes, I’m on my way to the office. But I coulda been wrapped up in bed.”
“Sure. You’d live at Bureau HQ if someone put a cot next to your desk.”
“I guess you’re calling for another update. Even though the woman isn’t your friend.”
Ingrid took a sip of coffee. “I can’t let this one go now. I owe it to Megan’s mom to see it through.” She owed her a whole lot more besides.
“I do have more news, but you might not want to hear it.”
“Nothing you tell me can be worse than what I’ve been imagining.”
“You might want to brace yourself anyways.”
Ingrid put down the coffee cup.
“They’ve started to recover some remains buried underneath the basement floor and in the backyard.”
Ingrid swallowed. She’d figured the perp wouldn’t have been satisfied with just three abductions. “How many?”
“So far they’ve identified bones from three different bodies. All female. All probably under forty years of age.”
“So far? There could be more?”
“Maybe close to a dozen, according to my sources.”
“Jesus, Mike.”
“I know.”
“And they’re still no closer to tracking him down?”
“Getting closer. Maybe. The theory is that somebody’s protecting him. When the details about the buried bodies hits the news channels, the hope is whoever’s sheltering him will get a bad conscience and come forward.”
“That’s not much of a lead.”
“They’re working some other angles—I just don’t know what they are yet.”
“When you find out, will you tell me right away?”
“I’ll do my best.” He drew in a sharp breath. “Listen, I know this matters to you, but you gotta keep a little perspective, OK? Don’t get obsessed with it, you hear?”
“Don’t lecture me, Mike. Just give me what you’ve got just as soon as you get it.” She hung up and shoved the phone back in her purse.
“You’re keen.”
Ingrid looked up to see Detective Chief Inspector Radcliffe looking down at her. “Can I get you a coffee?” she asked.
“I’m awash with the stuff. I had my first at half-six this morning and I haven’t stopped since.” He glanced at his watch. “Professor Glynde is expecting us.”
“Sure.” Ingrid drank the last of her Americano and pushed out her chair. “I really appreciate you setting up this meeting so fast.”
“I’m still not entirely sure why I agreed to it.”
“You don’t want to leave any stones unturned any more than I do.”
Radcliffe marched them down to the main reception area of the hospital and they took the elevator to the third floor. He led the way along a corridor with closed half-glazed doors on both sides. Ingrid supposed this floor housed the majority of the administration department.
“Glynde says he can spare us twenty minutes. He’s due in theater in just under an hour.”
“Busy man.”
“Aren’t we all.” Radcliffe knocked on the door and pushed it open.
Inside, a young woman was standing behind a very organized desk, just a phone, computer and keyboard sitting on top. “DCI Radcliffe?” she asked.
Radcliffe nodded.
“Professor Glynde’s expecting you.” She grabbed a large gym bag from beneath the desk. “I’m off to lunch now—you’ll be taking your own notes at the meeting?”
“We’re fine, no need for you to stay.” Radcliffe smiled at her and knocked on the interior door just to the right of her desk. This time he actually waited for a response before barging in. “Professor Glynde, thank you for your time.” He extended his arm and the two men shook hands. It wasn’t until Glynde looked expectantly at Ingrid that Radcliffe remembered his manners. “This is Agent Skyberg, from the American embassy.”
“A pleasure.” The professor shook her hand, scrutinizing her as closely as she was him. His auburn wavy hair was graying at the temples, he had a pair of wire-framed glasses perched on the end of his nose and his skin was ruddy rather than tanned, as if he sailed on the weekend. His red bow tie completed the hospital consultant look.
He let go of Ingrid’s hand and turned to Radcliffe. “I must admit, I thought we’d been through everything in detail during my previous interview, chief inspector.”
“Agent Skyberg has some additional questions.”
“Fire away. I have to warn you though, I am quite pressed for time.”
“I’ve seen a list of Molly’s injuries and there’s one in particular that I’d like to speak to you about.”
Glynde raised his eyebrows.
“The bruising on Molly’s upper arms.”
“Consistent with a shaking injury. The child is grabbed by the arms, the attacker squeezing hard against the soft flesh between elbow and shoulder joints. The flesh there bruises fairly readily without too much pressure being applied.”
“Have you seen many head injuries caused by shaking?”
“Nothing that’s led to a police inquiry.”
“But you would definitely say the injuries in this case are consistent with a shaking incident?”
“They are. But I don’t have much experience in these kinds of cases. Which is why I invited Dr Ryland to speak to you. He’s rather an expert in the field. Given evidence in court and so forth.”
“Dr Ryland?” Ingrid said.
“Yes—he should be here any moment. You can continue speaking to him when I duck out. He really is the man who knows all there is to know about cases similar to this one.”
“And Dr Ryland is familiar with the details if this case?”
“I’ve briefed him.”
Ingrid was beginning to feel she was being fobbed off. “Do you have Molly’s file here?”
Glynde reached over his desk and retrieved a slim folder from the top of a tall pile. He opened it and started to flip through the few pages inside. He stopped at a color photograph of Molly’s arms. “What did you want to know about the bruises?”
Ingrid noticed a scale printed at the side of the photo. “Can you tell me the size of the bruises?”
He turned the file around so that it was facing Ingrid. “You can see for yourself. This photograph has recorded the injuries at life size.”
Ingrid studied the purple and red marks on Molly’s pale arms. “These are finger marks caused by pressure applied to the flesh?”
“Wouldn’t you say the finger marks were a little small for a man’s hands?”
Radcliffe, who had previously been leaning back in his chair, sat forward to get a better look at the photograph.
“It’s impossible for me to form an opinion—after all, I don’t know the size of the suspect’s hands. Perhaps his fingers are abnormally small.”
“As far as I can recall, Kyle Foster is average height, average weight.” She looked directly at the DCI. “Surely if there were anything abnormal about his hands you would have been made aware of it?”
Radcliffe thought about it for a moment. “The crime scene manager will compare the injuries with Foster’s fingerprints in due course.”
Ingrid was amazed it hadn’t been done already. But then there was no doubt in Radcliffe’s mind that Kyle Foster was responsible for his daughter’s injuries. Why should there be? All the evidence pointed to Foster. Why would he question the testimony of a distraught mother when the case seemed so cut and dried?
Glynde was looking at the clock again. “Look, I’m sorry I’ve had to cut this meeting short, but I’m sure Dr Ryland will arrive any moment. Perhaps you could speak to him in the café downstairs?” He stood up.
Reluctantly, Ingrid got to her feet only after Radcliffe had slowly risen from his chair. She could see he was pissed at being asked to leave.
Glynde led them to the door just as a man on the other side opened it.
“Ah… Geoff! I’m afraid I can’t stick around. Do you mind taking the reins?”
Ingrid and Radcliffe exchanged an uneasy glance: if anyone was in control it should be one of them.
“Not at all, Roger. Only too pleased to help. It’s why I’m here, after all.” He turned to Ingrid and Radcliffe.
“You’ll have to introduce yourselves. My apologies.” Glynde ushered them out of his office, firmly closing the door and then herded them through the outer room and into the corridor beyond. He then practically sprinted away.
“It’s all go!” Glynde’s colleague stuck out a hand. “Geoff Ryland, at your service.” Ryland’s appearance was the opposite of Glynde’s. He was balding, bearded, gray-skinned and tieless.