by Eva Hudson
Radcliffe quickly introduced himself and Ingrid. He clearly wanted to ensure Ryland knew exactly who was leading the investigation.
“You work here at UCH?” Ingrid asked.
“Did my training here. But no—I’m based at King’s College now—the college itself rather than the hospital. I’m involved purely in research these days.” He gave Ingrid a sad smile. “Now, Roger tells me you want to discuss shaken baby syndrome.” He let out a sigh. “Not that we should call it that, of course. That particular theory has been widely discredited. And my reputation along with it.”
38
Rather than have their meeting in the café within the hospital, Dr Ryland suggested they adjourn to a nearby pub. “It is practically lunchtime,” he said, as he led them across Tottenham Court Road and down a side street leading to an area that Ingrid had discovered had been dubbed “NoHo” a few years ago.
Once they’d found the pub and Ryland had ordered beer battered fish with thick-cut French fries, a pint of bitter and two orange juices from the bar, they all headed for a corner seat of the large dining area. Ingrid sat down next to Ryland on the dubiously stained upholstery while Radcliffe pulled up a low wooden stool from a nearby table.
“So, little Molly Foster,” Ryland said and gulped down a few mouthfuls of beer. “Such a tragic case.”
“Professor Glynde suggested you were quite an expert in the field,” Ingrid said.
“Certainly I was. As I mentioned before, the subject has been quite controversial over the years. In the mid-2000s a number of cases went to appeal and the original convictions were overturned. Which reflected very badly on me, unfortunately.”
“How?”
“I was an expert witness for the prosecution. All the evidence I provided was scientifically sound at the time. But the science itself changed in the intervening years.”
Ingrid wondered just how reliable Ryland’s opinion was now. Were they wasting their time talking to a doctor about a discredited theory?
“The Crown Prosecution Service changed its guidance on the subject only a couple of years ago—but I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that, chief inspector.”
Ingrid looked expectantly at Radcliffe for an explanation. The DCI shifted uncomfortably on his stool. “The CPS guidance says a charge of homicide or attempted murder can’t be justified by the presence of head injuries alone. Other evidence needs to be present,” Radcliffe told her.
“Such as?”
“Such as an eye witness account of what happened. In this case, Carrie Foster’s.” The DCI sounded irritated.
Ingrid turned away from him. “How strong would someone need to be to do this kind of damage?” Ingrid was frustrated not to have Molly’s file in front of her. “You are familiar with the details of the case?”
“I am—Roger brought me up to speed.” He suddenly seemed distracted by something.
Ingrid followed his gaze and saw a waitress approaching with a large oval plate piled high with chunky fries and an enormous hunk of fish covered in dark orange batter. Ryland’s eyes widened as he shoved his pint glass out of the way to make room for his lunch.
“Another pint of bitter would go down a treat too.” He winked at the waitress then turned to Ingrid and Radcliffe. “Would you like another drink?” He eyed their untouched glasses sitting on the table. “Something stronger than orange juice perhaps?”
“We’re both fine.” Radcliffe dismissed the waitress with a wave of his hand.
The interview wasn’t going the way Ingrid had envisaged. She’d have to keep Ryland on track. But now he had beer battered Moby Dick and two pounds of deep fried potatoes to distract his attention, she wasn’t hopeful she’d manage it.
“The person responsible for the attack wouldn’t need to be that physically strong at all,” Ryland said after he’d thoughtfully chewed and swallowed a large mouthful of greasy fish. Ingrid was surprised he’d even remembered the original question. “Although the infant brain is pretty well protected by the skull at fourteen months, there’s still space inside the cranium to allow significant movement of the fragile organ with only the gentlest of shaking. It would need to be prolonged, however.” He speared three fat fries onto his fork, dipped them in tomato ketchup and shoved them into his mouth.
“And would prolonged shaking indicate more… premeditation… more intent?” Ingrid waited for him to repeat the chewing and swallowing procedure.
“Impossible to say.”
“Really?”
“I would have suggested that in the past, but I’ve had my fingers burnt making those kind of assumptions.”
“So it’s possible in a moment of weakness, a fit of rage… in a desperate attempt to stop a baby crying, for example, someone could inflict those injuries accidentally?”
“It has been known.”
Ingrid stared pointedly at Radcliffe, who took a moment to look up at her. He’d previously been mesmerized by Dr Ryland’s eating habits, an expression of mild disgust on his face. He gave her a shrug, his eyebrows raised as if to suggest what Ryland was telling them was of little consequence.
“Though in those cases, in my experience, additional head trauma has been present,” Ryland said.
“Meaning?”
“The head has made contact with a hard surface.”
“Is there evidence of that in this case?”
“There is some external bruising at the back of the skull. So it’s certainly possible.”
“Could that kind of injury be the result of an accidental knock to the head?” Ingrid asked.
Ryland nodded thoughtfully. “Though I’m not sure where you’re going with this.”
“If you wouldn’t mind bearing with me just a little longer.”
“Not at all.” He shoveled more fries into his mouth.
“What if someone were suffering from post natal depression? Would that make the possibility that the injuries were inflicted without premeditation more likely?”
“Most definitely. In the majority of the cases I’ve studied, post natal depression has been present. And proven to be a contributory factor.”
“Equally, some other type of mental health condition could also trigger this kind of attack, isn’t that true?” Radcliffe said, obviously keen to derail Ingrid’s theory that Carrie Foster might have been responsible.
“What sort of condition are you talking about?”
“A bout of rage caused by post traumatic stress disorder?”
“Not something I’ve come across personally. Not really my area. But yes, of course, there have been cases. I’ve read about them in the papers, just like everyone else.”
“But again, that wouldn’t point to premeditation,” Ingrid suggested.
Ryland put down his cutlery for the first time, picked up his glass and drank the last inch of beer just as the waitress arrived with a fresh pint. He looked from Ingrid to Radcliffe. “Are you two hoping to prove opposing theories?”
Neither of them answered.
“Only, I wouldn’t rely on anything I tell you. In these cases I’ve learnt to have a completely open mind. It has been rather forced upon me by past experience, but nevertheless… either or both of those two syndromes could have triggered an incident of shaking that might have caused Molly Foster’s injuries.”
“But you wouldn’t rule either of them out?” Ingrid pressed her point.
“No—I’m not one for ruling anything out. Not anymore.” He stared into space for a moment before quickly recovering to turn his attention back to his now half empty plate.
Radcliffe got to his feet. “Thank you for your time, Dr Ryland. Good of you to come over.”
“No trouble at all. Nice to have been asked!” He stood up and slowly reached his right hand behind his back, presumably to grab his wallet from a pocket. He was so slow, in fact, that he still hadn’t retrieved it before Radcliffe offered to pay.
From the expression on his face as he called over the waitress and settled the chec
k, Ingrid knew the DCI was seriously pissed.
39
Once they were outside the pub the DCI let rip. “I don’t know what you hoped to achieve with that exercise, but I think you’d have to agree your plan failed abysmally. That man is a washed-up excuse for a professional. He’s a joke.”
“I didn’t plan to speak to ‘that man’ at all—that was Glynde’s idea. But you can’t totally disregard what he told us. Carrie Foster is strong enough physically, and maybe mentally… compromised enough to have inflicted those injuries on Molly herself. You can’t ignore it any longer. You have to at least rule her out of any involvement before you can make any assumptions about her husband.”
“We interviewed her extensively. Her statement hasn’t wavered.”
“You were questioning her specifically about Kyle. About his actions. Have you closely examined hers?”
“She’s in no fit state to be put through that kind of interrogation. She wouldn’t cope with the ordeal.”
“Come on, you know you have to question her again. Kyle Foster insists he didn’t hurt Molly.”
“Of course he does. He’s abducted his son and is evading arrest for the attempted murder of his daughter. What else would you expect him to say?”
“What about the size of the bruises on Molly’s arms? How do you explain those?”
Radcliffe didn’t answer.
“And there’s the vodka hidden in her closet, the fact that people close to her said her mood worsened after Molly was born.”
“People? Unless you have medical evidence proving that fact, I’m not interested.”
“There’s something I haven’t told you.”
Radcliffe shook his head. “What desperate piece of insignificant information are you going to dredge up now to support your case?”
“I have nothing to gain by proving or disproving Kyle Foster’s guilt. How could I? I just want to make sure we look at his side of the story before totally dismissing it. I just want to get at the truth.”
“And you think I don’t?” He started to walk away.
Ingrid reached out and grabbed his sleeve as she drew level with him. They walked back toward Tottenham Court Road and the hospital. “I don’t think that for a second.”
“What, then? What haven’t you told me?”
“When Major Gurley and I were searching the Foster house we found a bottle of pills in the bathroom cabinet. I’ve since had them identified as anti-depressants. There was no label on the bottle, so I presume they weren’t officially prescribed.”
“You’re saying they were obtained illegally?”
“That’s my presumption. What if they’re Carrie’s?”
“Why didn’t you tell me about them before? Oh wait, I was forgetting, you’re somewhat selective with the information you pass on.”
“I’m telling you now.”
“Because it suits your purpose. They still might be his.”
Ingrid threw up her hands. Maybe Kyle Foster had shaken his daughter so hard she lost consciousness, but since Ingrid had spoken to Carrie’s friend on the base and Yvonne Sherwood, both telling her what a good father Kyle had been, she felt she should give the guy the benefit of a doubt. He’d seemed so concerned about Tommy’s safety when he called the base, wasn’t the possibility that his wife was responsible worth at least a little investigation?
As she and Radcliffe walked across the busy intersection, Ingrid tried desperately to come up with something she could tell the DCI that might convince him she wasn’t wasting his time.
Nothing came to mind.
They reached the other side of the street and Radcliffe turned to her. “I’m going back to the station. So I suppose this is goodbye.” He shook her hand and turned away.
As she watched him walk up Euston Road she saw a steady stream of slow moving pedestrians making their way to the entrance of the hospital. Some of them were in wheelchairs, some using strollers, crutches, a lot of them frail, most of them old.
Then she remembered something. Maybe Radcliffe would dismiss it as irrelevant just as soon as she told him, but she couldn’t not mention it. It could make a sliver of difference—and right now she was dealing in tiny increments. She ran after him.
“Hey, chief inspector!”
He didn’t hear her, just carried on marching. Or maybe he did and was ignoring her. She picked up her pace and reached him in a matter of seconds. “Please, DCI Radcliffe. There’s something else.”
He stopped dead and turned to her, a scowl on his face. “Something else you neglected to mention previously?”
“I pretty much dismissed it before, but now maybe it makes more sense.”
“Be quick. I really don’t want to waste any more of my day.”
She snatched a breath and launched into her unprepared speech. “There was a witness at the Fosters’ hotel, an American woman. She saw Kyle Foster return to his room when she was on her way down to breakfast on the morning of… the incident.”
“The attempted murder, you mean.”
“She said she distinctly remembered Foster was carrying a large McDonald’s bag.”
“I do hope this is leading somewhere.”
“According to Carrie Foster, Kyle grabbed Molly from her arms and shook her, violently, flung her onto the bed and stormed out of the room.”
“Yes?”
“He was mad. Out of control. He ran. Maybe she thought he wouldn’t come back. But he did. Not only that, he came back with breakfast for the whole family?”
“According to this witness.”
“Why should we doubt it? She was very clear. She said Foster smiled at her as he passed. Does that describe a man who practically shook his baby daughter to death only fifteen minutes earlier?”
“I’ve seen all the evidence collected from the scene. There was no McDonald’s bag.”
“OK, I don’t know what happened to the bag. But I’m sure there must be some CCTV footage from inside the restaurant showing Foster buying breakfast, if you doubt the witness’ account.”
“You know I can actually hear the faint sound of rustling, you’re clutching at straws so desperately.”
“I’m just saying Carrie Foster could have hurt Molly while Kyle was out fetching breakfast. She had the opportunity.”
The DCI didn’t respond.
“Come on—we have this, the hidden booze, the illegally prescribed pills, the small bruises. Doesn’t it all add up?”
Radcliffe closed his eyes and shook his head. “Dear God, you just don’t give up, do you?”
“Is there any other way to be?”
“All right. But I’m doing the questioning. I’ll try to arrange for an interview with Mrs Foster some time later today.”
“Can I observe?”
“I don’t want you in the room with me.”
“From another room, then.”
“We’d need to conduct the interview at the police station for that to be possible.”
“Surely you’d want to do that anyway—to record the interview?”
“She won’t be answering questions under caution. Let’s be quite clear about this—I am not arresting her.”
“No—of course not.”
At last. Ingrid felt she was beginning to get somewhere.
40
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Jack Gurley towered over Ingrid, she felt his hot breath on her face. His cheeks were scarlet with rage.
Two seconds earlier he’d burst into the observation room next to interview room five in Holborn police station, slamming the door behind him. The uniformed officer assigned to sit with them jumped up from his seat and forced himself between Gurley and Ingrid.
“Take it easy!” he said and raised his hands to Gurley’s chest, taking care to leave a good two inches of air between his palms and the angry MP’s shirt.
The door opened and another uniformed officer hurried into the room. She had an embarrassed expression on her face, clearly she’d just ha
d the door slammed on her by Gurley.
“Thank you, constable,” Ingrid said. “But I think I can manage the situation myself.”
“How is it I find out about this interview from your clerk at the embassy?”
“I thought your priority was seeing Kyle Foster behind bars, I didn’t imagine you’d be interested in anything more his wife had to say.”
“Where’s Radcliffe?” he yelled at the male PC standing just inches away from him. “I have to get this thing stopped.”
“No way,” Ingrid said. “DCI Radcliffe agrees there are enough anomalies in the case to make another interview necessary. With respect, Major, the decision to interview Carrie Foster again wasn’t yours to make.”
Gurley swore under his breath and kicked a nearby chair. It clattered into the table that was supporting an array of TV monitors. The monitors shook, one of them threatening for a moment to topple onto the floor.
“Take it easy,” the male PC said again.
“For crying out loud, is that all you can say?” Gurley marched toward the door, turned, then marched back again. “I want you to know I strongly oppose what you’re doing here.”
“I think you’ve made that quite clear.”
“Oh I can make it plenty clearer, believe me.” He pulled out the chair he’d just kicked and sat down.
The far left-hand monitor on the table showed activity in the interview room. The door opened. The family liaison officer they’d seen at the hospital walked in a few paces ahead of Carrie Foster. They both sat down on a low-backed couch, Carrie Foster leaning forward, her forearms resting on her knees. She looked as exhausted as she had during their previous meeting. After a few moments, DS Tyson and DCI Radcliffe entered the room and shut the door behind them. They sat on a matching couch arranged opposite the other, with just a few feet between the two. It almost looked as if Tyson’s knees might bump against the FLO’s. Ingrid understood the furniture and ambience of the room was meant to feel casual and unthreatening, but the forced intimacy seemed almost oppressive.