by Eva Hudson
“So why are you even telling me about it?”
“Because I need to explain the strategy the Legal Attaché and the Air Force big cheese cooked up between them.”
Ingrid didn’t like where she thought this might be heading. She pulled up abruptly.
“You and Major Gurley better start to play nice with one another. You’ve got to work together on this. Show a US government united front.”
Ingrid let out a groan. “I’m not taking orders from that arrogant son of a—”
“You don’t have to.”
“As much pleasure as it might give me telling him what to do, I don’t think he’d agree to follow my orders either.”
“Working together, didn’t I say? You’re going to cooperate with one another. Gurley has his chain of command, you have yours. But on the ground you two liaise with the local cops as a team.”
“I like to work alone.”
“I don’t care. My hands are tied on this one.”
“For God’s sake, Sol.”
“No point in arguing. Just don’t let me down.”
It wasn’t that long ago Ingrid had saved Sol Franklin’s life. She wasn’t about to disappoint him now. She never could. But the thought of working with an opinionated military cop? She felt a wave of heat pass from her chest up into her throat.
A moment later Sol said a brusque goodbye and hung up.
“I’m guessing you just had the exact same conversation as me.” A Texan accent. A voice so close to her ear she felt Gurley’s warmth breath against her skin.
She pulled away and wheeled around to face him. “Jesus! What are you doing creeping up on me like that?”
“Don’t tell me, your boss at the embassy, huh?” he said, undeterred. “General Major Walker called me himself. Might have considered it an honor.” He raised a sandy-blond eyebrow at her. “Under different circumstances.” He ran a hand over his buzz cut and put a hat on his head. “Looks like we’re stuck with one another. I suggest we make the best of it. Sooner we track Foster down, faster we can get back to normal.” He held out his hand. Reluctantly, Ingrid shook it.
He smiled a wily smile at her, moving just one corner of his mouth. “As long as we’re clear on one thing.”
“And that is?”
“We both agree that for practical purposes, on the ground… I’m in charge.”
7
Ingrid practically had to break into a jog to keep up with her companion’s lengthy strides. When they’d made it out of the hospital and onto the noisy, bustling Euston Road, she’d made it quite clear there was no way she’d be taking orders from Gurley. He’d merely laughed in her face. After that they continued the journey to the Fosters’ hotel in a hostile silence. Gurley was at least right about one thing, Ingrid thought: a swift resolution to the situation would be best for all parties concerned.
The hotel was situated in a side street just off Russell Square—a favorite location for American tourists on a budget. The slightly down-at-heel, three-star establishment took up four row houses in the middle of a Georgian terrace. Three of the front doors were sealed shut. The shabby exterior looked in need of urgent redecoration.
Ingrid led the way and quickly found a uniformed police constable chatting to a woman behind the reception desk. “We’re looking for Brian, the Crime Scene Manager,” Ingrid said and flashed her badge at him. He pointed her toward the stairs.
“Second floor. You can’t miss it.”
They tramped up four shallow flights of stairs, still not speaking to one another, and discovered another uniformed policeman on the second floor landing. He directed them to the other end of a dimly-lit corridor. Ingrid peered into the gloom, only just managing to make out two Tyvek-suited crime scene examiners standing outside an open door, talking to a woman dressed in a dark suit and vivid pink shirt. On her feet the woman was wearing overshoe bootees.
Ingrid hurried towards them. She waved her badge in the air by way of introduction and asked for Brian, the CSM. The woman, who was a detective constable, handed Ingrid and Gurley a pair of bootees each.
“I’m not sure they’re big enough,” the detective said, her gaze working its way slowly from Gurley’s feet to his face. “You are rather a tall specimen.”
Gurley glanced down at the small blue bootees and quickly rejected them. “It’s OK, I can see all I need from out here,” he said.
Ingrid couldn’t help but feel a little irritated at Gurley’s attitude. It seemed as if he’d decided this exercise was a waste of his time and wasn’t prepared to participate. She peered into the room.
“That’s Brian’s arse, right there,” the detective told her and pointed to a man crawling on his hands and knees beneath a low couch.
Ingrid slipped the bootees over her shoes and entered the room, taking care to step on the plastic platforms laid out twelve inches apart to get to the other side. “Brian? I’m Agent Skyberg… from the embassy.”
The CSM made a little groan then carefully backed out of the confined space without hitting his head. He wriggled backwards like a man who had learned the hard way not to move too quickly in tight spaces. With some effort, he heaved himself vertical and looked Ingrid up and down. “I was expecting a bloke,” he said, unapologetically.
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“Oh no, not at all. You’ll do nicely.” He smiled a lascivious smile at her and Ingrid prepared herself for a barrage of double entendres and inappropriate remarks about her appearance. “What do you need to know, my lovely?”
She was still tuning her ear to the various regional accents in the UK, trying to get a grip on most of them. She quickly decided “Brian the CSM” was Welsh. Most probably south Wales, if she had to choose. She rapidly outlined everything Carrie Foster had told her about what happened that morning. “Is this scene consistent with her statement?”
Brian stuck out his bottom lip and surveyed the room, nodding as he turned his head left then right. “That could work.” Then he started to shake his head. “Bloody domestics. I’ve seen the aftermath of too many of them over the years. They never get any easier to deal with, especially when there’s kiddies involved. Bloody tragedy.” He stared into Ingrid’s face. “You got kids have you?” His gaze dropped to the small triangle of bare flesh that was visible above her shirt.
“I don’t.”
“Then you wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh I think I can empathize just fine.”
“No—that’s what I thought until I had one of my own. Turns your world upside down. Got five of the little buggers now. Love them all more than life itself. How could he do something like that to his own baby girl?”
Ingrid glanced around the room, taking in the built-in closet, the couch, the broken A-frame bed, and finally the kingsize. The room was in need of urgent redecoration, even more so than the exterior of the hotel. She wondered what the room rate was for a run-down place like this. Maybe First Lieutenants in the US Air Force got paid a lot less than she imagined. She completed another 360 degree turn and tried to work out if anything seemed out of place. From Carrie Foster’s description of what happened, Ingrid felt sure something was missing. Then she worked out what it was. “Has your team removed any large items of furniture?”
“No. Only small ones. Why do you ask?”
She turned back toward the door. “Hey, Major Gurley.” Gurley was busy talking to the detective in the bright pink blouse. He looked up, a slightly guilty expression on his face. “How tall would you say Carrie Foster was?”
He shrugged back at her. “Bit shorter than you, maybe.”
“That’s what I thought.” Ingrid scanned the room again. But there was no solid piece of furniture at the right height that would cause a bruise on her mid-thigh. She’d been expecting a table, a desk or a low bureau. But nothing fitted the bill. “Detective, have you seen a list of the injuries sustained to Mrs Foster and her daughter?” she asked the pink-shirted woman.
“A list was emailed to m
y phone a little while ago,” she said. “I haven’t had chance to look at it properly yet.”
“Do you think you could you look at it now?” And stop flirting with my colleague.
The detective quickly located the file on her smart phone. “What am I looking for exactly?”
“Did the doctors confirm a large bruise on Mrs Foster’s thigh?”
The cop scanned the email. “Yes—here it is. Large hematoma. Left thigh, eight inches below pelvis.”
Ingrid made a note of the details and studied the room more closely. There really was very little floor space, no wonder tempers had been fraying. Four human beings in such a cramped environment would have tested the most patient of souls. She tried to put herself in Kyle Foster’s place, bringing to mind the mild, self-diagnosed version of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder she’d been suffering from on and off since Megan was taken. She closed her eyes and could immediately recall the sickly sweet caramel aroma of cotton candy. The distant sound of carnival organ music grew louder the harder she concentrated. Her breathing became shallower as her heart started to pound. Then her temperature increased as if someone had turned on a heater. She could absolutely understand Foster’s need to flee. It felt claustrophobic in there. But to hurt his daughter? If it had all been getting too much for him, why not just run? But then Ingrid supposed in his head he wasn’t so much hurting his daughter as making the noise go away.
“You OK?”
Ingrid felt the CSM’s elbow nudge her arm. She snapped open her eyes. Sweat had begun trickling down her back, and was prickling at the nape of her neck. She had to get out of that room. “I’m fine,” she told the CSM, even though it was obvious she was anything but.
“Are we done here?” Gurley called from the doorway.
Ingrid needed to speak to Carrie Foster again. If the facts surrounding her injury were already being called into doubt, what else about her statement might prove unreliable?
8
A black embassy sedan was waiting for them when Ingrid and Gurley emerged from the hotel. Ingrid asked the driver to drop her on Gower Street so she could pick up her motorcycle: she didn’t want to add to the embassy’s growing pile of unpaid parking tickets. As she stood on the sidewalk and watched the limousine merge into the long line of traffic, the relief of getting away from Gurley for a while was greater than she’d expected.
Although the traffic from Bloomsbury to Mayfair was heavy all the way, on the bike Ingrid managed to arrive at the embassy parking lot ahead of Major Gurley. She took the opportunity to visit Sol’s office on the fifth floor, but when she got there his desk was empty. She called him and discovered he was heading up the welcoming committee in the Criminal Division office two floors below.
“An update, if you wouldn’t mind, agent?” he said when she got there.
Ingrid started to lay out everything she’d learned in detail, interrupted occasionally by the beep of Sol’s cell phone. When she stopped abruptly halfway through her account, Sol turned around to see what had caused the sudden halt.
“Major Gurley, you made it,” he said and extended a hand. “I’m Sol Franklin. Ingrid you’ve met, of course.” He put his arm around Gurley’s wide back and guided the MP to Jennifer’s desk. “And this is the most indispensable member of the FBI program here at the embassy. Jennifer Rocharde. Anything on any of our databases you need to find, Jennifer is the person to find it. We’d be quite lost without her.”
“Pleasure to be acquainted with you, miss.” Gurley nodded toward Jennifer and immediately her cheeks flushed bright pink.
“Now, where were we?” Sol sat on the edge of Jennifer’s desk and folded his arms.
Ingrid continued to tell him what she’d discovered, turning to the major sporadically for his input.
It never came.
“You haven’t said very much, major. What’s on your mind?” Sol said when Ingrid had finished.
“May I speak frankly, sir?”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way. And please—call me Sol.”
“I’m concerned we’re wasting time. The clock’s running down. We should be out there searching for Foster. We’re making polite conversation while the trail’s going cold.”
Ingrid wondered why the hell Gurley had even agreed to come to the embassy if he felt so strongly about it.
“We should be following standard US Air Force procedure: apprehend the man who’s gone AWOL, ASAP. Foster’s had survival training—in the event of being shot down in enemy territory. If he’s gone to ground, it’s going to be one hell of a job to track him down.”
“And you feel you’re the man for the job?” Sol’s tone was patient, if a little condescending.
“Due respect, sir. I know I am.”
Sol smiled up at Gurley’s blank face. “As a matter of fact, I’ve spoken to your superiors at the base and they agree. They have full confidence in your abilities. They want you and Agent Skyberg to share your expertise with the Met. But you have to understand, the Met does have some experience in apprehending fugitives.”
“To be truly effective, I’ve found it’s better if I work alone.” He glanced at Ingrid. “No disrespect, agent. I’m making no comment on your skills in these matters.”
For a man who didn’t mean to disrespect anyone, Gurley was doing a good job at demonstrating the complete opposite. Why was he making things difficult when the investigation had barely begun?
“Working alone just isn’t practical on this case,” Sol said. “I was under the impression that had been explained to you. The Pentagon has agreed to Bureau involvement.”
Gurley shook his head and stared down at the floor.
“But both you and Agent Skyberg must work closely with the Metropolitan Police Force. They have the best intel in this kind of situation. Their PR department are liaising with the major news outlets to get the story out there. The officers manning the phones in the police incident room have already received calls from people claiming they’ve seen Kyle and Tommy Foster.”
“Claiming? What does that mean?”
“None of the sightings has been confirmed at this time.”
“You see? Their intel isn’t worth a shi—” Gurley glanced at Jennifer and didn’t finish his sentence.
“Is Carrie Foster making a statement herself?” Ingrid asked.
“At the press conference. Hopefully that’ll happen tomorrow morning. She’ll be pleading for the safe return of her son. Trying to appeal to her husband’s sense of duty, loyalty. Playing on his conscience—if he has one. And if all that fails to elicit the desired response, she’ll be appealing to the great British public.”
“So that more crackpots and loony toons call the police and waste even more time? You really think that’s gonna help any?” Gurley thumped the desk with his fist and made Jennifer jump. “I’m sorry, miss.”
Ingrid could see Sol struggling to control his reaction to Gurley’s obstructiveness. “I know this operation is outside your normal working procedures, but we have to be flexible and adapt. We’ve got to pull together.” He looked from Gurley to Ingrid. “Can we agree to that at least?”
“Not a problem for me,” Ingrid said.
“I don’t have any choice, do I?”
“We’ll reconvene here tomorrow after the press conference.”
The muscles in Gurley’s jaw were working overtime. “Where is this police incident room?”
“Holborn Police Station,” Jennifer told him.
He looked at her blankly.
“Around two miles from here,” Ingrid said.
“If that’s where all this valuable intel will come from, why are we here instead of there?”
Ingrid supposed it was a good point, but knew that Sol would have had his own reasons to bring Major Gurley to the embassy, presumably to get some measure of the man.
“I’m sure that will be your next stop, Jack—may I call you Jack?”
Gurley nodded but didn’t seem enthusiastic about the idea.
“I don’t actually know the man.”
“But since you were informed of this morning’s tragic events, you must have read his personal file?”
“I’ve perused it. Dry facts and figures tend not to help in these situations.”
“Before you left the base, I’m guessing you had a chance to speak to the doctor who’s treating him for PTSD?” Ingrid asked.
“She wasn’t available. I’m still waiting for a call.”
“But you’ve read his medical report?”
Jennifer handed Ingrid a sheaf of papers held together in the top left-hand corner by a paperclip.
“What’s this?” she asked the clerk.
“I only just finished putting it together. It’s everything we have on Kyle Foster.”
“That’s Defense Department classified information. You have no authority to look at that.” Gurley reached out a hand, but Ingrid was too fast for him, she snatched away the report.
“I can print you one too, if you’d like, major?” The clerk smiled at him.
Gurley hadn’t taken his eyes off Ingrid as she leafed through the pages. “That won’t be necessary, thank you, Miss Rocharde.”
“Did you know Foster has been flying drone missions for the last two years?” Ingrid said. She scanned down to the bottom of the page.
Dear God.
“You’ve read this, Sol?”
The assistant deputy chief nodded gravely at her.
“It says he was responsible for the deaths of at least twenty-two women and children in a single mission in February 2011.” She swallowed and turned the page. The more she read, the more she wished she hadn’t. “The targets were meant to be arms silos and fuel depots, but the missiles ended up hitting a school in village just outside Hajjah. She looked directly at Gurley. “You knew about the civilian casualties in the drone attacks?”
Gurley let out a breath and clenched his jaw, as if he’d been expecting the question. “You’re always going to get collateral damage in a war situation.”