by Eva Hudson
“According to the report these people were on their way to a family wedding.”
“You know as well as I do that shit happens.”
“Did you tell Radcliffe about all this?”
“It wasn’t relevant to his investigation.”
“How can you say that? The police need to know what kind of man they’re dealing with.” Ingrid flipped through the pages to get to Kyle Foster’s medical reports and discovered his PTSD was formally diagnosed at the end of 2011. She remembered Carrie Foster telling them he’d been suffering for quite a while longer than that. She skimmed through the remainder of the report. “It doesn’t say what caused his condition,” she said when she’d finished. “Was it his time in Afghanistan, or the drone missions he’s carried out since moving to the UK?”
Gurley shrugged. “It’s not likely to be one isolated incident. How is that relevant, anyway?”
“It might help us work out what his triggers are likely to be.”
“You heard what his wife said—loud noises, crying, screaming—that’s what set him off this morning. God knows what little thing might trigger the next attack. We’ve just got to hope Tommy is behaving himself.” He glanced at Jennifer before continuing. “We have to accept the longer they’re out there, the more chance there is Tommy will be his next victim.”
9
Ingrid stared at her vibrating phone, suspecting it was Svetlana rather than Mike Stiller, wondering whether she could face speaking to her. She answered just before the call diverted to voicemail. “Hi, Mom. Before you ask, I don’t have any news yet. And yes, I did put in a request with one of my old colleagues.” She hit the speakerphone option on her cell and rested it on the counter between the sinks in the ladies’ washroom. “All we can do now is wait.” She put her hands under the faucet then ran her wet fingers through her messy hair in an attempt to restyle it.
“Oh we can do plenty more than just wait,” Svetlana said. “You think you know what I’m going to say before I get a chance to open my mouth? Well you’re wrong. I’m calling to beg you to speak to Kathleen. She’s been talking about you all day. She got out the photograph albums this morning. She showed me the pictures of you and Megan. The two of you looked so happy.”
We were. But I ruined all that.
“I can’t go through this again with you, Mom. Please stop asking me. My answer isn’t going to change.”
“Where’s your conscience?”
Locked in a secure file cabinet at the bottom of Lily Lake, just where the psychotherapist told me to put it.
“I didn’t raise you to be so heartless.”
You didn’t raise me at all.
Ingrid hung up and tossed the phone into her purse. The door into the restroom opened and a uniformed policewoman walked in. Ingrid reapplied her lipstick and gave herself a long hard stare in the mirror. She was looking tired. Her eyes were a little bloodshot and dark shadows had started to appear underneath them. She ran her fingers though her short blond hair again, but it was well past restyling. She could take some consolation from the fact she was spending the evening in Holborn Police Station rather than on a much anticipated date with Detective Constable Ralph Mills—at least he wouldn’t see just how crap she looked. She corrected a smudge of lipstick with the tip of her little finger and fished around in her purse for some concealer to deal with the dark circles beneath her eyes. Before she found the tube of makeup her phone started to vibrate again. She pulled it out, saw it was Ralph calling and couldn’t decide whether or not to answer.
What the hell.
“I just got your message,” he said, as soon as Ingrid picked up.
“I’m really sorry. I wouldn’t cancel if it wasn’t important.”
“That’s why I’m calling. There’s no need to cancel. I’m walking up Theobalds Road as we speak.”
That was just around the corner. “I really can’t leave right now.”
“That’s why I’m coming to you. I’ve got two pizzas and half a dozen chilled beers. I went for a quattro formaggi and pancetta with mozzarella and rocket. How does that sound?”
“I don’t know—I really need to work.”
“I can help. I do know my way around an incident room. See you in five.” He hung up.
Ingrid stared at her phone. She was tempted to call him back, but she was ravenous, and a big part of her really wanted to see him. She’d been on a few dates since she’d ended her fourteen- month engagement with Marshall Claybourne. Feeling a little on the rebound, she’d wanted to get Marshall out of her system, so she’d dated men who didn’t really mean that much to her. But Ralph was different. She’d wanted their first date to go well. For once she actually cared what impression she made. But an impromptu meal in a busy corner of a station house? It wasn’t an auspicious start to a relationship. Not that Ingrid was even sure that was what she wanted from him. She dug into her purse again, found the tube of concealer she’d been looking for, plus some mascara and eyeshadow. She did the best she could to enliven her tired features. The female PC emerged from one of the cubicles just as Ingrid put the final flourish to her eyelashes.
“Are you working the abduction case?” Ingrid asked her, feeling she couldn’t exactly ignore the woman in the cramped restroom.
The policewoman nodded at her via the mirror.
“Taken any promising calls yet this evening?”
“Not so far. I have had two proposals of marriage, a heavy breather and a shed load of abuse though.”
“What gets into folk?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
Ingrid headed for the door. “See you back in there, I guess.”
“I’ve just finished a double shift. I’m going home. If I’m lucky I might just get there before it’s time to come back again.” She smiled at Ingrid. “Good luck.”
“Thanks.” Ingrid had a feeling she might need it.
10
Ingrid returned to the incident room. It seemed even busier than when she’d left it. The forty-foot square, open-plan office was jammed with desks, two people answering phones at each one. The large room was brightly illuminated by unflattering fluorescent overhead lighting, more than bright enough to expose all the flaws in her hasty repair job.
She saw Ralph Mills sitting on the edge of a desk, chatting to a detective whose name Ingrid had forgotten. Ralph was dressed in combat pants and a vintage tee shirt, a pair of Timberland boots on his feet. He must have been home to get changed after work. He looked restless, nervously picking the label off a bottle of beer. She was relieved he seemed just as anxious as her about their ‘date’. She took a deep breath and marched toward him.
A moment later Ralph spotted her and his anxious expression melted away as he smiled warmly at her. In that instant, Ingrid was reminded, just as she had been many times before when Ralph smiled at her, of Clark Swanson: her very first junior high school crush. Something about that smile made her stomach flip, as if she were thirteen all over again.
She gave him a little smile in return and he jumped up from the desk and hurried toward her.
When he reached her, a long, awkward moment passed, both of them unsure how to greet one another. Finally they simultaneously opted for a safe peck on both cheeks, a sanitized European-style ‘hello’ that couldn’t carry any subtext. He stood back and beamed at her. “You look fantastic.”
His dopey grin was infectious. She found herself grinning back at him so hard her cheeks started to ache. “You too.”
“I’ve managed to commandeer a spare desk in a relatively quiet corner of the room.”
“Hey, I’m really sorry about this.”
“I completely understand. You can’t just drop everything. But I’ve had a quick chat with the incident room manager, I’ve wangled you the next twenty minutes off.”
“A man with influence, huh?”
“I have my uses. Why do you think the boss has put up with me for so long?”
Ralph’s senior officer, DI Nata
sha McKittrick, was the nearest thing Ingrid had to a good friend in London. In fact, Natasha was pretty much the closest friend she’d had in her adult life. After Megan Avery had disappeared, Ingrid had made it a rule not to get too close to people. In each of the field offices she worked in her eight years in the Bureau, she’d done no more than made acquaintances. No real friends. She was grateful Mike Stiller still took her calls.
“Which reminds me,” Ralph said, breaking into her thoughts. “The boss says ‘hi’.”
“You told her about our… this… I mean, tonight?”
“Didn’t you?” When he took in the appalled expression on her face, he made a silent ‘o’ with his mouth. “I just assumed you chatted to her about everything. Thought I’d get in early, try to prevent some of her piss-taking.” He sighed. “Needless to say my strategy didn’t work—she’s been ribbing me about it all day.”
Even before Ingrid had made the break from Marshall, McKittrick had done her best to act as Cupid. The detective inspector seemed determined to get the two of them out on a date together. Now McKittrick had finally gotten what she wanted. In the end it was easier for Ingrid to give in to her friend’s ham-fisted attempt at matchmaking than continue to pretend she wasn’t interested.
“She just won’t let up,” he said. “She’s been worse since you broke off—” He stopped himself, no doubt encouraged to by the admonishing look Ingrid was giving him. “That was out of order. Shouldn’t have mentioned it. Sorry.”
“It’s not like it’s a taboo subject or anything. But I’d rather not spend whatever time we’ve got this evening talking about my ex.”
Ralph turned away, suddenly unable to look her in the eye. He ducked between desks, not stopping to look back until he’d reached the promised ‘quiet corner’. The small desk was flanked on both sides by long tables occupied by a half dozen cops speaking loudly into their phones. Ingrid joined him and they perched on the edge of the desk, facing toward the wall. Ralph set down the two pizza boxes and pack of beers between them. Ingrid flipped open the lid of the top box.
“So, Natasha’s been working you hard today, huh?” She pulled out a wedge of cheesy pizza.
“She’s a tough boss. Fair, but tough.”
“Sounds like she told you to say that.” She smiled. “And is that OK with you? Working hard all the time? No chance for a little fun every now and then?”
“We’re having fun now, aren’t we?” He pulled off his own triangle of pizza and took a large bite. At the next desk a female cop slammed down the phone and muttered, “bloody pervert”. Ralph raised his eyebrows. “Ah, the joys of a public appeal. Shame it has to involve the public.” He picked up a bottle of beer, pushed off the top on the side of the desk and handed it to Ingrid. They clinked bottles and Ingrid raised a toast to law enforcement officers everywhere.
“Hear, hear.” Ralph took a swig of beer. “I might moan about it, but I do seriously love this job. It’s all I ever wanted to do. I suppose it’s in my genes.”
“Really?”
“My dad was a copper. Detective Inspector Charlie Mills.” He picked another corner of the label from his bottle. “In his heyday that name sent chills up and down most old lags’ spines.” He took another swig. “If he could see me now, eating fancy pizza and drinking beer out of a bottle.”
“Pizza too fancy for him is it?”
“Too foreign, definitely.”
“A traditional guy, huh?”
“In every sense of the word. Especially at work. Not always a good thing. He wouldn’t hesitate beating a confession out of a suspect if he needed a swift conviction. They really were the bad old days.”
Ingrid raised her eyebrows.
“Don’t get me wrong, I know there are still problems that need sorting inside the Met, but we’ve made a hell of a lot of progress.”
Ingrid hadn’t envisaged talking about work quite so much on their first date, but given the surroundings, she didn’t really see how they could avoid it. “The guy I’m working with on this case, Jack Gurley?” She turned and looked around the office, expecting to see Gurley standing over someone’s desk, waiting to pounce on a confirmed sighting and leap into action, but couldn’t spot him anywhere. “I get the impression he’s beaten up plenty of prisoners in his time. Different rules in the armed forces, I guess.”
“How long are you going to be working with him?”
Was that a fleeting flash of jealousy she detected in Ralph’s expression?
“Until we locate the suspect. I guess it could be a while.”
“Oh.”
“It’s OK—I know how to handle the Jack Gurleys of this world.”
“I wasn’t saying you didn’t, I just—”
Ingrid grabbed his hand. He looked down at her hand covering his then looked up into her eyes. He opened his mouth to say something else and Ingrid shoved a corner of her pizza slice into it. She opened the other box and pulled out another slice. “You want some of this too?” she said, waving the triangle of dough laden with thick cheese and pancetta.
Ralph’s nose twitched. “Not for me, thanks. Not a big fan of pork.”
“You’re not?”
“Been that way since I was a kid.”
“Come on—not even crispy bacon?”
He shook his head firmly. Ingrid noticed he’d gone a little pale. “Not since half a rotting pig carcass was dumped on our doorstep when I was six years old,” he said.
“Who would do a thing like that?”
“Dad never found out. He suspected it was someone he’d put away. Too many potential suspects there to actually pin it on someone.” He shook his head. “My God, it was disgusting.”
Ingrid looked down at the pizza slice. Ralph’s story hadn’t put her off one bit. She took a bite. “I was raised on the stuff,” she said, in between chews. “My dad was a hog farmer.”
“He’s retired now?”
“He’s dead.”
“I’m sorry. What about your mum?”
“Oh she’s very much alive—powered by vodka and nicotine.”
“Are you close?”
“Not at all. I was a real daddy’s girl. He was the kindest man you could ever meet.”
“The complete opposite of mine then.”
“Do you get along OK?”
“He’s dead too.”
“Sorry. How did the conversation get so morbid? Let’s change the subject, shall we?” She raised her bottle, couldn’t think of anything to toast, then took a sip. “Here’s to good beer and fine dining.”
Ralph raised his bottle too. “And beautiful company.” When he realized what he’d just said, his cheeks bloomed crimson. He looked away.
Ingrid couldn’t help but smile to herself. It wasn’t much of a date, but she had the feeling they would manage to make the best of it.
Across the room someone hollered. Ingrid turned around to see a uniformed cop waving a piece of paper in her hand and running toward DS Tyson who was just coming through the door. Ingrid jumped up and zig-zagged between the tightly arranged desks.
“Cab driver, picked up a man and a boy this morning in Eversholt Street. Just a couple of hundred yards from the hotel. He said he didn’t get a good look at the boy, but the man more or less fits Foster’s description,” the breathless PC said.
“And where did he drop them?” Tyson asked.
“The man told him to head north. Then asked him to stop just before they reached King’s Cross Station.”
Gurley appeared in the doorway. “We have a sighting?”
“It looks promising,” Tyson told him. “I’ll get on to Transport Police, they can check CCTV at the station.” He looked at the PC. “What time was this?”
“Around nine a.m.”
“We should get down there,” Gurley said.
“That was over twelve hours ago.” Ingrid shook her head. “He could be anywhere by now. But at least we know which direction Foster was headed. It’s a damn sight more than we had five minutes
ago.”
“She’s right,” Tyson said. “Let’s see what the CCTV comes up with before we go racing round. We can make a start on mapping his movements after he left the hotel.”
Ingrid glanced over to the corner of the office. Ralph shrugged back at her and closed the lid of the pizza boxes.
She had a feeling it was going to be a long night.
11
The news conference had been arranged by the Metropolitan Police press office, with a lot of unhelpful interference from the embassy and the US Air Force. As Ingrid waited on the steps outside the conference hall just around the corner from New Scotland Yard, she let her mind wander to the end of her ‘date’ with Ralph Mills.
They had said their goodbyes at Holborn Tube station. Ingrid had explained she had a really early start and Ralph said he did too, even though, by the expression on his face, he looked a little crushed by her announcement. Just as she was about to turn away, Ralph pulled her toward him and planted a kiss on her lips. He tasted of oregano and beer. She felt a rush and flutter in the pit of her stomach, like some schoolgirl on a first date, not an until recently engaged-to-be-married thirty-one-year-old woman.
When they pulled apart again, he looked her square in the eye and for once, he wasn’t blushing.
Every time she had remembered that kiss subsequently, Ingrid experienced the same flutter radiating out across her body. So what if it made her feel like a lovestruck teenager?
The sight of Jack Gurley ducking out of a taxi wrenched her from her romantic musings. She was relieved to see he was wearing civilian clothes: a pair of brown pants and a beige shirt with a button-down collar. He still looked like an off duty military cop, but at least it was better than the battledress of the previous day. He spotted her, nodded a restrained ‘hello’ and paid the cab driver.
They entered the building in silence and followed the last of the journalists and photographers into the main hall. There had been a couple more promising sightings the previous evening, one at the London Aquarium, the other near the London Eye—both locations close to one another, just a short distance from Westminster Bridge—but as the day approached its end, the number of calls dwindled and eventually stopped. The hope was that a personal appeal by Carrie Foster herself would get more media coverage and in turn lead to a surge in reported sightings.