by Eva Hudson
53
A brilliant white light shone in Ingrid’s eyes. She held up a hand to shield them from the glare and managed to make out Yvonne Sherwood heading towards them from the doorway, glowing cell phone in one hand, broken brick in the other.
“I’m sorry, Kyle,” Sherwood said. “Tommy managed to wriggle out of my arms and run away. He knocked my phone from my hands. It took me a while to find it in the dark.” She glared at Ingrid. “Is everything all right?”
“It’s fine,” Ingrid answered.
“Kyle? What’s happened? Why’s Tommy crying?”
“It was an accident. I didn’t mean to hurt her,” Tommy sobbed.
“It’s OK, Tommy. It’s OK. Shhh…” Foster wrapped his arms around his son more tightly, burying the boy’s head beneath his jacket. “Carrie didn’t do it,” he told Sherwood. “She didn’t hurt Molly.”
The woman seemed bewildered. “I don’t understand. If Carrie didn’t—”
“It was Tommy,” Ingrid said.
“Kyle?”
“He just said he was trying to make Molly stop crying. He shook her.” There was still a tremor in Foster’s voice.
“Dear God.”
“She says he’s too young to face any charges,” Foster said, looking at Ingrid. “Do you know if that’s true?”
Sherwood shrugged. “Might be. It rings a bell.”
“How about you get rid of that brick?” Ingrid said, pointing at the potentially lethal weapon in Sherwood’s fist. “Then maybe you can help me find my phone. We need to get out of here.”
After locating her cell on the rubble-strewn floor, Kyle Foster gathered his son into his arms and they slowly picked their way across the room. They exited via another corridor and left the building using a different doorway, emerging onto a street on the north side of the derelict warehouse. Sherwood hurried ahead of them to her silver Nissan parked on the other side of the road.
Ingrid sat up front with Sherwood, while Kyle cradled Tommy in his arms on the back seat.
“Are we driving back to the base?” Sherwood asked, peering into the rear-view mirror.
“I want to visit the hospital, see Molly,” Foster said. “Show Tommy his sister’s going to be just fine.”
Ingrid hoped to hell he was right. “I should call some people,” she said. “That OK with you, Kyle?” When he didn’t answer right away, she twisted in her seat to see him nodding at her, tears streaming down his face.
Ingrid found Gurley’s number in her phone. “Jack?”
“What the hell is happening?”
“We’ve cleared the building. Everyone’s just fine. I need you to meet us at the hospital.”
“What went down in there?”
She gave him a quick account of what Tommy had admitted then hung up before he could ask her questions. Next she called DCI Radcliffe and repeated the same account.
“You believe him? You don’t get the impression he’s been coached to admit hurting his sister by Foster?”
Ingrid couldn’t believe quite what a cynical bastard Radcliffe was. “I’m certain it’s genuine. We’re heading for UCH.”
“We’ll need to take a statement from him.”
“Sure. Just not tonight, OK? The kid’s exhausted.”
Radcliffe reluctantly agreed, then hung up, just moments before Ingrid’s cell finally ran out of battery.
Ingrid, Yvonne Sherwood and Carrie Foster’s family liaison officer stood discreetly beside the door in Molly’s hospital room as the little girl giggled and gurgled at the faces her big brother was making at her.
“See?” Sherwood said. “I told you he couldn’t hurt either of them. He’s a good dad.”
“Maybe Carrie’s a better mother than either of us have given her credit for too,” Ingrid said.
Sherwood didn’t comment.
After fifteen minutes, the ICU nurse ushered them all out of the room, insisting they let Molly sleep. Sherwood and the FLO took Tommy in search of something to eat while Ingrid stayed with Kyle Foster just outside the room.
“I think she’s going to be OK,” he said.
“Tomorrow morning you can speak to the doctors.”
“When I saw Molly in Carrie’s arms… in the hotel room, she wasn’t moving. I just assumed that she was dead, that Carrie had… Carrie’s been so down for so long now. I thought… I guess… I just had to get Tommy away from her.” He rubbed the back of his hand against his forehead. He looked like he hadn’t washed for days, his fingernails and knuckles were grimed with dirt.
Twenty yards or so down the corridor the double doors swung open. Carrie Foster, accompanied by DS Tyson, walked unsteadily towards them. Kyle Foster looked at his wife as she approached, but didn’t move.
“I should go, give you a little time together,” Ingrid said quietly.
“No, please stay.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure I’m ready to speak to her. A little support would be appreciated.”
Carrie Foster quickened her pace. “I want to see Molly. And Tommy,” she said as she got closer to the room.
“The nurse said Molly should rest for a while,” Ingrid told her.
“Where’s Tommy?” she asked.
“Getting something to eat. He’s all right,” Ingrid said. “Shaken, tired, but he’ll be just fine. The FLO and Yvonne are with him.”
After a long moment, Carrie Foster shifted her gaze from Ingrid to Kyle. She swallowed. “I’m sorry, Kyle.”
They both turned toward the door of Molly’s room and peered through the porthole window, saying nothing.
After a while Kyle Foster broke the silence. “Why did you tell the police I hurt her?” His voice was no more than a whisper.
Carrie Foster didn’t answer.
“How could you do that?”
“I didn’t know what else to do. I had to protect Tommy.”
Kyle Foster shook his head. “So did I.”
“I panicked. I’m sorry. I should have told them I was responsible right from the start. But I wanted to stay with Molly. If I’d said I’d hurt her they would have taken her away from me. When I saw that EMT staring at you in the hotel room, he had such a suspicious look on his face… the idea of blaming you was the first thought I had. It seemed the easiest option. I couldn’t tell them what really happened.”
“But you could have told me. We’d have worked something out.”
“And what? Have the police arrest Tommy?”
“He’s too young to be arrested.”
“I didn’t know that. You think I would have let all this happen if I knew that? You’ve got to believe me—I thought I was doing the best thing for everyone.”
“Jesus, Carrie. You know how much I love them. How could you tell people I hurt them?” He sniffed. Tears were streaming down his face again.
“Why did you take Tommy?”
“What?”
“Maybe if you hadn’t taken him… if you hadn’t run…”
“I thought Molly was dead. Tommy had blood on his face… I had to get him away from you.”
“I didn’t mean to hit him. All I could think about was stopping him hurting Molly.” She looked down at the floor. The expression on her face slowly turned from one of remorse to something closer to indignation. She stared up at her husband. “You really thought I’d killed Molly?”
“What else was I supposed to think? Especially when you blamed me for it.” Kyle Foster glanced at Ingrid. She wasn’t sure what it was he might want her to say, but there was no way she was getting involved. She started to back away.
“I told you already,” Carrie said, “blaming you seemed the easiest option. The longer it went on, the more impossible it was for me to change my story. I was terrified of losing Molly.”
“Me too.” He stared through the window into Molly’s room. “What did the doctors tell you? Is she going to be all right?”
“They’re hopeful. She’ll need more scans. She’ll have to be monitored clo
sely, but it’s looking much better than it was.”
“Thank God.” He wiped his cheeks dry with the sleeve of his jacket. “The police need to interview Tommy. We should both be there when they do. He needs his mom and dad right now.”
“Of course.” She swallowed. “I want to try to put things right, Kyle.” She reached out a hand, but he pulled away. “Tell me you want that too.”
He shook his head. “Right now, I just care about the kids, OK? I’ll do what I have to for them.”
Carrie Foster took a deep breath. “There’s something else I need to tell you, about Molly. Something you should hear from me, before you speak to the doctors.”
“About her diagnosis?” He sounded panicked.
“No—nothing to do with her condition. Something else.”
Ingrid had been slowly edging away from the couple, now she turned around and hurried along the corridor. There was no need for her to witness Kyle’s reaction to the bombshell his wife was about to drop. She needed to get to Gurley, head him off at the pass before he came blundering in. As she approached DS Tyson, who’d been keeping a respectful distance, she nodded and said, “Been a long week, hasn’t it?”
The detective nodded back at her, his gaze fixed on the Fosters, a grim expression on his face.
“What’ll happen to Tommy?”
Tyson hesitated before answering. “He’ll need to make a formal statement. Then he might be given a Child Safety Order.”
Ingrid looked at him blankly.
“If he is, he’ll be placed under the supervision of a youth offending team. But that sort of approach is designed for persistent offenders. I’m not sure it can even be applied to foreign nationals. It’s all a bloody awful mess, the whole thing.”
Ingrid wasn’t about to argue with his assessment.
Along the corridor, the double doors swung open again and Jack Gurley appeared, his face gray, his posture slumped. He looked like a defeated man.
“How’s it going with the big reconciliation?” Gurley gestured in the Fosters’ direction.
“Not great and I’d say it’s about to get a whole lot worse,” Ingrid said and quickly walked Gurley back through the doors. “I think Carrie is about to tell Kyle about Molly.”
Gurley stopped. “Shouldn’t I be around for that? To support Carrie? If Kyle wants to throw a punch at me, maybe I should let him.”
“You really think Molly is yours?”
He nodded, letting out a long sigh. “I’ll take a DNA test—prove it one way or the other. Maybe afterwards I should ask for a transfer back home.”
“Shouldn’t you stick around? For Molly’s sake?”
“That’s not up to me. I’ll do whatever Carrie wants me to.”
Ingrid wondered at Gurley’s reluctance to get involved. He didn’t seem like the sort of man who would run away from his responsibilities. “What did you do with the pistol?” she asked, keen to change the subject.
“It’s in the glove compartment of the car. Don’t worry—I’ll deal with it, make sure no one can blame it on Foster.”
“Good.”
“I screwed up. Least I can do is put it right.” He stuck out his hand. “Pleasure working with you, agent.” He gave her a wry smile.
Ingrid took his hand in hers. “Likewise.” It wasn’t exactly a lie, but she wouldn’t be in a hurry to repeat the experience. “But you’re not quite free of me yet.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“There’s the whole Bureau debrief ordeal to get through.”
“They need me for that?”
“Afraid so.”
He shrugged. “Listen, that little chat I had with the chief, about getting you taken off the investigation?”
“It’s OK—I won’t bear a grudge.”
He smiled at her again then led the way toward the elevators. “How about I buy you that pizza I promised you? Prove there’s no hard feelings?”
“I’m real tired. Let’s take a raincheck on that, shall we?”
He smiled again, his face a picture of relief.
54
The next day Ingrid didn’t stir from her bed until noon. She hadn’t set an alarm, assuming the bright morning light that streamed into her bedroom would wake her. But she’d slept right through. As she sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, she wasn’t sure the extra hours of sleep had been at all restorative. It felt a little shameful sleeping in so late. She reached down and grabbed her phone from the floor and discovered she’d missed a dozen or so calls. She quickly flipped through the list of text messages and worked out who she should call first.
Just as soon as she’d drunk her first cup of coffee.
As she staggered blearily into the kitchen, she listened to a long, rambling voice message from Ralph, telling her how relieved he was that she was safe and asking if she’d perhaps like to meet later, if she was feeling up to it. Ingrid saved his message, smiling stupidly at the phone, surprised at just how much the idea of seeing him appealed to her. She sent him a quick text message, promising to call later.
Then she made coffee.
Just as she was finishing her second large mug, sitting cross-legged outside on the roof terrace, her phone started to ring. It was an international call. Her mother or Mike Stiller. She wasn’t sure right now if she wanted to speak to either of them. She drained her coffee and hit the answer button.
It was Mike. For him to be calling her this early D.C. time on a Sunday, it had to be something serious.
He took a while greeting her, asking how she was, how her case was going, was she busy, could she speak, until she had to shout at him to tell her whatever it was he’d called her about. Still he hesitated.
“For God’s sake, Mike, all this prevaricating isn’t actually helping. Just tell me.”
Which was exactly what he proceeded to do for the next ten minutes. He spelled out in detail everything he knew, answering all of Ingrid’s questions, even when she interrupted him—which would normally have gotten him so mad he would have hung up on her—and spoke in such gentle tones, at times she wasn’t sure she was even speaking to the right man.
When she eventually hung up, even though she’d exhausted all her lines of questioning, drawn out every last morsel of information Mike had for her, Ingrid still couldn’t believe what he’d told her. Or maybe she just didn’t want to believe it. She stared down at her phone, watching it shake in her trembling hand, and felt her throat tighten. She stood up and walked unsteadily to the edge of her roof terrace. She stared out at the view across London, imagining another vista, another view. One she hadn’t seen for many, many years. Maybe too many.
She closed her eyes. She knew what she had to do next, but wasn’t sure if she was ready.
After a little while she opened her eyes, wiped the tears from her face and selected a number from her contacts list. She took a quick, deep breath before Svetlana picked up.
“Hey, Mom, it’s me. I hope I didn’t wake you.” She braced herself for a torrent of insults and abuse, but it didn’t come. Perhaps it was something about the tone of her voice, in those few words, that stopped her mother’s complaints about unanswered calls and ignored messages.
Whatever it was, Svetlana simply said, “Tell me.”
Ingrid swallowed and started to relay everything Mike Stiller had just told her. Unlike Ingrid, Svetlana remained quiet on the other end of the line, waiting for a natural pause in her daughter’s account before she asked her first question.
“There can be no doubt?” she said, the inflection in the question suggesting she was hoping that there was.
“The samples they tested matched enough of Kathleen’s DNA profile to prove the… victim is a close relative. As soon as they get a sample of Megan’s hair to test, everything will be confirmed for sure. They found her, Mom. They found Megan.”
Svetlana didn’t say anything.
“She was so close to home, all this time. So close and we never knew.” Ingrid was struggling to c
ontain her tears. She pulled the phone away from her ear for a moment and sniffed sharply. “All these years I thought I could save her.”
“Nobody could, Golubushka. Nobody.” Ingrid couldn’t remember the last time her mother used that name when she was talking to her. It sent a shiver up her spine.
“Are you with Kathleen right now?” Ingrid asked.
“No, I’m in the car on my way over to her house. I should call her.”
Ingrid sucked in a breath. “No. Wait. Don’t do that. Let me.”
“You’re sure?”
“I think it’s the very least I can do. But she shouldn’t be alone when she finds out. Will you call me when you get there, then pass the phone to Kathleen?”
“You don’t even have to ask.”
“We found her, Mom.”
“I’ll call you soon. Will you…” She paused.
“What is it?”
“Will you come home now?”
After a painful, but thankfully brief conversation with Kathleen Avery, Ingrid managed to book the last seat on the final flight to Minneapolis for the afternoon flight the following day. Then she called Sol Franklin at home to explain the situation, grateful to get through the whole story without breaking down.
“I hate to abandon my post, but I have to go back home. I’ll need a week or so.”
“Listen to me, you take as long as you need. We can cover for you here. I’ll take on your caseload myself if I have to.”
“I’m sorry, Sol.”
“Nothing to apologize for—we’ll manage.”
“I need to write up my report on the Foster case.”
“I’ll speak to Major Gurley, I’m sure between us we can produce something to keep the chief happy.”
Ingrid really did feel bad leaving a job half done. But doing the right thing for Megan Avery was more important than anything else.
“Just tell me you’re planning on coming back,” Sol said.
Ingrid hadn’t been thinking that far ahead. She’d just assumed she would return to London. But now Sol had actually raised the possibility she might not, the idea didn’t seem that outrageous.