by Eva Hudson
“Look at her,” Gurley said, tapping the screen of the next monitor along. It showed a close-up of Carrie Foster’s face. “She looks ready to collapse. They shouldn’t be putting her through this.” He balled his hand into a fist and banged it against his knee. “This shouldn’t be happening.”
Ingrid pulled out the chair next to him and sat down. The male PC sat next to her. The female PC took up position by the door, presumably ready to hinder any attempt by Gurley to interrupt the interview in the next room.
“Let’s just listen to what she has to say, shall we?” Ingrid said.
Gurley didn’t answer, just flexed his jaw muscles in response.
Radcliffe’s voice boomed through the speakers in the observation room. “Thank you for agreeing to come into the station like this, Mrs Foster. We really appreciate your cooperation.”
The PC stretched across Ingrid and lowered the volume control on the small amplifier sitting on the table.
“Do I need a lawyer?” Carrie Foster glanced at the FLO, who gave her a reassuring smile. She ignored it. “I mean, you’re all cops after all. Maybe I should have somebody here looking after my interests.”
“Good,” Gurley muttered. “She won’t be a pushover. Radcliffe won’t be able to bully her.”
“You’re not under arrest, Mrs Foster,” Tyson said in a soft voice. “You can get up and leave any time you want. This is just an informal chat.”
“Are you recording this?” she looked up toward the ceiling. “Filming it?”
“Only for your benefit. We wouldn’t want to mis-remember anything you told us. We don’t have to record a single word, if you’d rather have it that way.”
Mrs Foster hesitated before answering. “I suppose it’s for the best. I wouldn’t want you twisting my words.”
“We have absolutely no intention of doing that. Why would we?” Radcliffe said, his tone acquiring a harder edge.
“Look—I can’t stay here long. I still can’t sleep without medication, I’ve hardly eaten. I don’t feel well enough to answer a lot of questions. I shouldn’t be away from Molly.”
“We only really want you to tell us what happened on Monday morning.”
“Again?” Carrie Foster and Gurley said in unison.
“What is this? Anomalies my ass,” Gurley said. He started to get up, then changed his mind.
Ingrid did her best to ignore him, concentrating instead on what was going on in the room next door.
“I know it’s traumatic for you,” Radcliffe was saying, barely managing to sound sympathetic. Ingrid supposed he was eager to get the whole thing over with. “But now that Molly is on the road to recovery, we thought you might feel more able to speak to us.”
“The doctors don’t know if she’ll make a full recovery. There may be long term issues. What if she’s permanently brain damaged? What if she can’t hear or see properly?” She clasped her hands together. “What am I even doing here? I should get back to the hospital.” She stood up.
“We won’t keep you long, I promise.” Radcliffe managed a faint smile. “Something you tell us now might help track down Kyle.”
“Why is it taking you so long to find him?”
“It’s just as frustrating for us, believe me. Our priority is to locate Kyle and get Tommy back to you. That’s why it’s important for us to talk again. You do understand?”
Carrie Foster sat back down. For the next ten minutes she proceeded to list the same sequence of events that she had in her earlier interview.
In the observation room, Ingrid was willing Radcliffe to interject, probe Carrie Foster’s account of what happened little more rigorously. But he just sat there nodding silently.
“When you say you attempted to grab Molly back from Kyle, can you describe how you tried to do that? I’m having trouble picturing it,” the DCI finally said.
“I pulled at his arms. He was holding Molly close to him while he was shaking her. His grip on her was too tight.”
“Where was he holding her, exactly?”
Carrie Foster paused, closed her eyes, as if trying to remember the scene in detail. “He was squeezing her arms.”
“At the shoulders? The elbows?”
She lifted her hands in the air, her fingers curled, supposedly miming the actions of her husband. “Upper arms, between her elbows and shoulders.”
“That would certainly be consistent with the bruising there,” Radcliffe said.
Ingrid thought she saw a flash of panic cross Mrs Foster’s face at the mention of Molly’s bruises.
“How long was your husband shaking Molly?” Radcliffe asked.
Foster looked down at her hands. She shrugged. “I don’t know, a long time maybe. It felt like a long time.”
“And all the while you were grabbing at his arms, to try to get Molly back?”
She nodded slowly. “Every time I reached out for her he swung her away from me.”
“Still shaking her?”
“Yes! How many times do I have to tell you? He didn’t stop shaking her.”
The FLO rested a calming hand on Mrs Foster’s knee. She angrily batted it away.
“I’m sorry. I really don’t mean to upset you,” the DCI said. “But you must realize, if we’re to build a solid case against your husband, we do need to know even the smallest of details.”
“You’ve got to catch him first. Maybe you should be spending your time doing that.”
“Believe me, we are. We’ve devoted considerable manpower to the operation.”
“Oh sure.” Gurley said. “And look where it’s gotten you.”
The uniformed PC sitting next to Ingrid huffed a disapproving sigh.
“You got something to say, officer?”
The PC didn’t reply.
“Then keep your goddamn mouth shut.”
“Shhh,” Ingrid said, still watching the monitors intently.
“What happened next?” Radcliffe said. He had leaned both elbows on his knees, his hands grasped together in front of him.
Carrie Foster let out an unexpected high pitched sob. “Molly went quiet.”
“She’d been crying all this time?”
“That’s why he was shaking her. To make her stop.”
“And then what happened?”
“He shoved her back at me.”
The image on the far right-hand monitor showed Radcliffe’s forehead pucker into a severe frown. “I thought you said your husband threw Molly onto the bed.”
“What?”
“In your earlier statement.”
“He did.”
“But you just said—”
“He shoved her toward me, I wasn’t expecting him to do that, I wasn’t ready to take her, so she landed on the bed.”
“So he was more throwing Molly at you, rather than deliberately hurling her towards the bed?”
“I don’t know what he was doing.” She leaned forward, her face inches away from the detective’s. “You’d have to ask him that.”
41
Without being asked, the family liaison officer got to her feet. Radcliffe glared at her. “Sir, I think it might be time for a break now.”
“I’ll decide when a break is called for.”
“But, sir, Carrie’s clearly distressed. Let me at least get her a glass of water.”
Carrie Foster started to cry.
“I can’t let this go on a minute longer.” Gurley got to his feet.
Ingrid grabbed his arm. “Let’s wait a few moments, can we? I think Radcliffe might be getting somewhere.”
“Sure, if harassing an innocent woman was his aim, he’s doing real well.”
Ingrid stood up too. “Just a little while longer. Please, Jack.”
They both turned their attention back toward the monitors to see the FLO hand Carrie Foster a bottle of water. Mrs Foster’s hands were trembling too much to unscrew the top, so the FLO opened the bottle for her.
“Jesus, look at what he’s done to her,” Gurley said
, sitting down again.
“We are grateful for you answering our questions like this, Mrs Foster, I can’t express that strongly enough,” Radcliffe said gently.
“Are we nearly through?”
“Almost, just another couple of questions and we’ll be done.” Once again, Radcliffe glanced up at the camera, an admonishing look on his face, as if he were holding Ingrid personally responsible for Carrie Foster’s current condition. “In your earlier statement you said that Kyle pushed you away so violently that you bruised yourself on an item of furniture.”
“Yes?”
“You didn’t mention it just now. When exactly in the sequence of events did this happen? And can you describe the furniture in question?”
“It was… I guess it was the bureau, the wooden bureau set against the wall.”
“Really?”
“I think so.”
“Only that seems a little high to cause a bruise on your thigh. How tall are you, Mrs Foster?”
“Five-six.”
“Exactly, far too high.”
Carrie Foster frowned at him. “Maybe it was something else. I wasn’t really paying attention to the furniture. Kyle was hurting Molly, it was all I could think about.”
“And you sustained this injury when?”
She thought for a moment. “When I tried to grab Molly from him.”
“So he what, let go of Molly with one hand to push you?”
“No, he didn’t stop shaking her. He kind of… he shoved me with his hip and thigh, sent me off balance and I crashed into something—I guess I don’t remember what that was.” She raised the bottle of water to her lips with a trembling hand and took a sip. “Is that it?”
“Just one final thing.” Radcliffe tilted his head sympathetically. “It has been brought to my attention that you are in possession of a prescription drug—an anti-depressant—that has been illegally obtained.”
“What?”
“A bottle of pills was discovered in your bathroom cabinet at home.”
“What the hell have you been doing in my house?”
“Strictly speaking, the house is the property of the RAF, leased to the US Air Force. Our American colleagues authorized the search.”
Carrie Foster lifted a hand to her mouth.
“Are the pills yours, Mrs Foster?”
“I… don’t know anything about any pills.”
Ingrid was surprised at her answer. She’d assumed Carrie Foster would say the pills were Kyle’s right off the bat.
“Do they belong to your husband?”
Slowly blinking away her tears, Carrie Foster wiped the back of her hand across her cheeks. “I guess they could be—I’ve never seen any pills.”
“The hell with this.” Gurley started towards the door. “I’m stopping it right now.”
“There’s no need,” Ingrid called to him. “It’s over.”
Gurley turned abruptly. “What did you think you were doing?” He pointed a finger into Ingrid’s face, his fingertip just a fraction of an inch from her left cheek. She reared backwards, almost losing her balance.
The PC stood up.
“Tell me to take it easy one more goddamn time and I swear…” Gurley yelled at the officer. “You told Radcliffe about the pills?” he said, lowering his hand. “You said they were for menstrual cramping. What’s all this anti-depressant crap?”
“Hey—I made a mistake. They were the same color as something I’ve taken before.”
“How’d you even know what they were?”
“I did a little research.”
“And when were you planning on sharing that information with me?”
“I guess it slipped my mind.”
“Un-fucking-believable.”
It was the first time she’d heard Gurley swear. “I’m sorry, OK?”
“You thought they belonged to him, didn’t you? But you didn’t want to believe he was taking anti-depressants. Didn’t fit in with this new theory of yours, huh?”
“Why do you refuse to even question Carrie’s innocence?”
Gurley glanced at the PC standing close by. “I’m not having this conversation with you now.”
“I just want the truth. Nothing more, nothing less. I thought that’s what you wanted too.”
“Don’t even try to suggest that I don’t. How dare you—” He was cut off by the door opening.
Ingrid turned to see Radcliffe standing in the doorway. “Well?” she said. “What are you going to do about her?”
“Give her a lift back to the hospital.”
“She contradicted her earlier statement.”
“Not significantly.”
“She was uncomfortable when you brought up the subject of the bruising. And how could she not know about the pills in her own bathroom cabinet?”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Don’t you have enough to arrest her? Insist she answers more questions. You didn’t even bring up the issue of the breakfast from McDonald’s.”
“The what?” Gurley said.
“Nothing—an unconfirmed witness statement. I didn’t bring it up because it wasn’t relevant,” Radcliffe snapped. “I’ve just put that woman through hell, and wasted my own time in the process. Are you satisfied now?” He stared at Ingrid accusingly.
“Not in the least,” she said, holding his gaze. “But I guess that’s my problem.” Dissatisfaction with Radcliffe’s interview technique wasn’t the issue. She was frustrated as hell nobody wanted to consider another explanation for Molly’s injuries.
Without saying another word, the chief inspector left the room. Gurley followed him out, with Ingrid just a couple of steps behind them.
“Tell me I’m not going to witness a repeat of that performance,” Gurley said. “Tell me you have no plans to question Carrie Foster again.”
“Perhaps you should be talking to your colleague about that, rather than me.” Radcliffe marched away.
“What’s going on with you?” Ingrid asked Gurley.
“With me?” He shook his head. “You just don’t know when to stop, do you? When to admit you’re wrong.”
“There’s something you’re not telling me. How can you be so sure Carrie Foster had nothing to do with her daughter’s injuries?”
“You seem to be the only person who isn’t. As far as I can see you’re in a minority of one.”
As they stood in the gleaming, white-walled corridor, the door to the interview room opened and Carrie Foster emerged. She was hanging on to the arm of the family liaison officer for support. She looked from Gurley to Ingrid. “What are you doing here? Was this your idea? I thought you were supposed to be supporting me.”
Gurley reached out a hand to her. Carrie Foster ducked away.
“We are here for you,” he said, his voice gentle.
“You make me sick. All of you.”
The FLO led Mrs Foster away. DS Tyson appeared in the doorway of the interview room. He ignored Ingrid and Gurley and walked away, shaking his head as he went.
“You’ve managed to alienate just about everyone,” Gurley said, contempt in his voice. Then he called after Tyson. “Hey, wait up. I’d like to see the latest intel you have.”
Tyson slowed. “I’m on my way to the incident room now.”
Ingrid was left stranded in the middle of the corridor. She grabbed her phone and called Sol Franklin.
“Hi Ingrid, any developments?” he said as soon as he picked up.
“No. Nothing worth reporting. I’m calling about something else. I want to make a formal request to investigate this case solo. Major Gurley and I have very different, incompatible methods. His attitude is affecting my ability to do my job.”
There was silence for a few moments on the other end of the line.
“Sol?”
“I wanted to talk to you about Major Gurley, as a matter of fact.”
Another pause.
“You did?”
“He contacted the chief earlier tod
ay. Major Gurley has requested you’re taken off the case.”
42
Ingrid emerged from Holborn police station in a daze. The rest of her conversation with Sol Franklin had not gone well. She’d let loose a series of grievances about Gurley’s behavior that just made her seem whiny and unprofessional. Sol listened patiently to all of her complaints, finally telling her they’d speak in more detail after he’d tried to smooth things out with the chief. She hoped Sol could work his magic and keep her on the case. She’d come too far now not to see it through to its conclusion.
On the other side of the sidewalk she noticed a small gathering of people. It took her a moment to realize they were reporters. A moment after that a familiar figure stepped out of the crowd.
“Ingrid. I’m so glad I didn’t miss you.” Angela Tate hurried toward her.
Tate was the last person Ingrid wanted to see. She considered making a dash for it. “How did you know I was here?”
“I have my spies at the hospital. They told me Carrie Foster was on the move, accompanied by her FLO and two detectives. It didn’t take a genius to work out she was being brought in for questioning. Has she been arrested?”
“How did your… colleagues find out about it?” Ingrid pointed to the handful of journalists, some of them talking on cell phones, others enjoying a cigarette. She saw Tate’s photographer chatting to a man holding a large microphone covered in a furry windshield.
“News travels fast, unfortunately. I was rather hoping for an exclusive.” She smiled at Ingrid. “Still am, as a matter of fact, with your help.”
“No way.”
“You haven’t answered my question: has Carrie Foster been arrested?”
“I have no intention of speaking to you.”
Ingrid could only suppose Foster had been escorted back to the hospital using an alternate exit. Through the parking lot, most probably. Thank God. At least Tate wouldn’t get the chance to fire questions at her. “How long have you been waiting here?”
“Long enough to get bloody cheesed off. Come on, Ingrid—throw me a crumb.”
“You’re wasting your time. There’s no story for you.”