Deep Hurt

by Eva Hudson

  “Or they’re both dead,” Gurley said, helpfully providing scenario number three.

  Jennifer swallowed hard. “I really don’t want to believe that.”

  “I know this is difficult. Anything involving kids always is.” Ingrid had had more than enough experience in her years at the VCAC. “We need you to hang on in there.”

  “I’m sorry, it’s just that my baby brother is only ten years old,” Jennifer said, her voice shaky. “Mom calls him her little miracle.” She sniffed. “Dad calls him his gigantic mistake—but I know he’s only kidding. If anything happened to him I don’t know what I’d do. Carrie Foster must be going through hell.” She sniffed, her eyes had started watering.

  “Hey, Jennifer, we’re relying on you to be strong for us,” Gurley said. “The best way you can help Tommy is by being right where you are and working your butt off.” He pulled a folded handkerchief from the back pocket of his pants and handed it to her. “Can you do that for us?”

  Jennifer dabbed her nose and nodded rapidly. “Of course I can.”

  Ingrid caught Gurley’s eye and mouthed ‘thank you’ at him. Maybe the gruff MP wasn’t quite as insensitive as she’d thought. “OK,” she said, and clapped her hands together. “Let’s assume for the sake of argument that both father and son are still alive. If that’s the case, Kyle would need to find some place safe for Tommy. So maybe he’s taken a cheap rental somewhere, or a room in a budget hotel. Somewhere he could pay with cash without raising suspicion.” She turned back to Jennifer. “Do we know how much cash he has on him?”

  “Whatever he had in his wallet plus £500 he withdrew from the ATM at Barclays Bank on Russell Square, near the hotel.”

  “No other traceable activity?”

  “No cell phone use, no credit cards. His bank account has now been frozen.”

  Ingrid looked at another map showing London and its surrounding counties. “Can we even assume he’d stay in the capital? Surely there’s too much police activity for him not to leave? Is he familiar with any other location in the UK?”

  “As far as we know, he’s never been out of Suffolk before,” Gurley said. “The only area of the country he really knows is within a forty mile radius of the base.”

  “I thought we might be needing this.” Jennifer unfolded another unwieldy map. This one displayed the whole of England and Wales.

  Ingrid studied the distance between central London and mid Suffolk, the location of RAF Freckenham. She was so used to checking dinky little local maps on her GPS app, it was good to get a sense of perspective and distance. Judging by the scale, the Air Force base was around fifty miles from London as the crow flies, which didn’t really help any, so Ingrid tapped the details into her trusty app to get the distance by road: seventy-two miles. “That’s an awful long way to travel undetected with a small boy when the whole nation is looking for you.”

  “It would be plain dumb for him to return to the base. What possible reason could he have?” Gurley sucked his teeth.

  “A network of people he can trust?” Ingrid suggested.

  “Not after what he did,” Gurley said.

  “I expect Radcliffe has asked the Suffolk cops to watch the train and bus stations close to the base, but it’s worth checking, I guess.”

  “I’ll get onto it,” Jennifer said.

  Gurley returned to studying the map of England and Wales. “If he is on his own…” He lowered his voice. “And if he’s gone to ground, living off the land, we might not get any more sightings. We’ll just have to track him the old fashioned way.”

  “Which way is that?”

  “Weighing up all the possibilities, trusting your gut, and hoping like hell it doesn’t let you down.”

  “And what’s your gut telling you right now?”

  “He’s going to return to what he knows.”

  “The base?”

  “Not necessarily, but some place related.”

  Ingrid stared into Gurley’s piercing blue eyes. He obviously had a theory. Why didn’t he just come right out and tell her? She thought about it for a moment. If Foster returned to what he knew, what was it he knew better than anything else? “Airplanes,” Ingrid said, after a beat.

  A corner of Gurley’s mouth curled into something close to a smile.

  “Jennifer, we need a list of all the small airstrips within a…” Ingrid paused, looking at Gurley, “sixty mile radius of London.”

  “You can’t visit every one of them,” the clerk said.

  “We don’t intend to. You’re going to call them for us,” Gurley smiled at her. “Find out if they’ve seen anyone hanging around acting suspicious in the past twenty-four hours. If maybe any of their aircraft have been tampered with.”

  “So I should start from the center and work outwards?”

  “See,” Gurley said. “I said we couldn’t do this without you.”

  Jennifer beamed up at him then set to work.

  Gurley strode to the door.

  “You’re not staying?” Jennifer’s disappointment was obvious.

  “I need to get a tracker survival pack together. Want me to get one for you too?” he asked Ingrid.

  “This isn’t the wilds of Wyoming. You can’t go too far in this country without passing a McDonald’s or a Dominoes Pizza.”

  “Please yourself. Don’t come running to me when you don’t have a ground sheet or a bed roll.”

  “You’re suggesting we track him on foot, like stalking a deer or something?”

  “It might come to that. Nothing wrong with being prepared.” He set off down the corridor for a few steps then hurried back again. “Jennifer? Where should I head for a camping supply store in this city?”

  Jennifer frowned at him. “Try Selfridges—on Oxford Street. They sell pretty much everything.”

  “Is that on the Tube?”

  Ingrid found the location quickly on her GPS app. She showed Gurley. “It’s just a few blocks away.” He stared at the route for a few seconds, nodded his thanks, then disappeared back out the door.

  “What do you make of him?” Jennifer whispered, staring at the vacant doorway.

  “I really don’t know.” It was true. Ingrid had assumed he was an unfeeling, tough, arrogant son of a bitch. But he’d shown a different side with Jennifer just now. Maybe she needed to keep an open mind.

  Jennifer returned to her mammoth task and Ingrid sat at her desk, hating the fact that all she could do right now was wait for information. From Jennifer’s inquiries… from the police… She blinked. There was some other information that she’d already waited far too long for. She shoved her purse over her shoulder, pulled her jacket from the back of her chair and told Jennifer she was going for a walk to clear her head.

  15

  As Ingrid waited for Mike Stiller at FBI HQ to pick up, she soon discovered she was headed not to the main entrance of the embassy as she’d previously intended, but downstairs toward the underground parking lot. Somehow, on autopilot, her brain had found something useful for her to do while she waited for more news. The call to Mike diverted to his voicemail and she left a terse message.

  She was climbing off her Triumph Tiger 800 outside the Fosters’ hotel off Russell Square less than fifteen minutes later. She swapped her motorcycle helmet for her purse and locked the box on the back of the bike. Her cell started ringing as she ran up the front steps to the entrance. The call displayed on the screen was an out of area number. An international call. She hoped it was Mike Stiller calling back and not Svetlana on a mission to guilt trip her.

  She answered and waited.

  “Ingrid? Are you there?” Mike sounded tetchy.

  “Did you find anything for me?”

  “Not much. I was going to call when I had more information. They found three women in the property, two in their twenties, the third they’re guessing is in her thirties.”

  “Guessing? They don’t know?”

  “If you let me explain all will become clear. Clearer, at leas
t.” He took a deep breath. “So, two women have identified themselves. At present those IDs are being verified. They’re not from Minnesota, it’s taking a while to track down their next of kin.”

  “What about the third woman?”

  “I’m just coming to that.”

  Ingrid skipped back down the steps and started to pace up and down the sidewalk.

  “The third woman hasn’t said a word. She looks older than the other two, and has been there the longest. Neither of the other two women knows anything about her.”

  “I need to get pictures of the third woman sent to someone in my home town—a lady called Kathleen Avery. She’d recognize Megan in a heartbeat.”

  “You know the drill. It doesn’t work like that. Maybe the local feds can arrange for this Avery lady to visit the medical center the victims are staying at.”

  “That’s not possible. Kathleen Avery hasn’t left her house since 1999.”

  “What is she, sick or something?”

  “It’s complicated. Ever since Megan disappeared her mother has suffered from agoraphobia. Plus she’s morbidly obese. She has serious mobility issues. For her, leaving home just isn’t an option.”

  “Jeez. I don’t know what else to suggest.”

  “There must be something the Bureau can do. What about a DNA test? They could take a sample from Kathleen, compare them with this woman’s.” Ingrid knew that eighteen years ago, taking DNA samples hadn’t been part of regular police procedure in a missing person case. If it had been, making a match now would have been straightforward.

  “I’ll make some calls.”

  “And what about the interviews? Can you get me the video recordings?”

  “I’m still working on that. It may take a while.”

  “Can you at least send me a photograph of the mute woman?”

  “Sure. I’m attaching it to an email as we speak. But this is for your eyes only—at this stage I can’t have you distributing it to anybody else. Is that clear? I shouldn’t even be sending it to you.”

  Ingrid’s breath caught in her throat. She wasn’t sure she’d recognize Megan after so many years. “Mike?”

  “You get it yet?”

  “I’m not at my computer—it’ll come through on my phone—I’ll look at it later. The woman who’s not speaking. Is she… heavy?”

  “You mean like, morbidly obese?”

  “Just heavy?”

  “No. All three women were fed strict rations in captivity. Their abductor had specific tastes when it came to body shape and size. They’re all pretty skinny.”

  “Thanks, Mike. You will keep me posted, won’t you?”

  “Sure—don’t I always keep my word?”

  “Eventually.”

  “Harsh! Why do I continue to come to your rescue? You cruel woman.”

  She appreciated Mike trying to lighten the mood, but she couldn’t manage an appropriate retort before she hung up.

  As she navigated to the email app on her phone, her mouth became very dry. She found a half bottle of Evian in her purse and finished it. She stared at her phone, paralyzed with dread.

  She couldn’t bring herself to look at the attachment. She wasn’t ready. Not yet. Not to see Megan’s face staring back at her after all these years. Instead, she hurried into the hotel.

  DS Tyson was inside, chatting to the receptionist. Beyond him Ingrid saw several tables in the lounge-cum-bar area occupied by plain clothes cops interviewing a handful of guests.

  Ingrid waited until the receptionist had to answer the phone before she approached Tyson. “Hey, detective, how’s it going?”

  Tyson spun around and took a moment to respond.

  “Agent Skyberg. From the US embassy?” Ingrid prompted.

  “Oh I hadn’t forgotten you, believe me.” He peered toward the hotel entrance. “Where’s Lurch?”

  “If you mean Major Gurley, he had business elsewhere.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Have your CSEs finished up?”

  He nodded. “Just this morning. Hotel room door has been secured.”

  “Made any new discoveries since yesterday afternoon?”

  “You will be sent the forensics report when it’s ready, you know.”

  “I can’t wait that long.”

  The receptionist finished her call and Tyson led Ingrid away from the desk, past the groups of guests and cops and through to the empty dining room. He pulled out a couple of chairs and waited for Ingrid to take a seat.

  “I thought you interviewed the guests yesterday,” Ingrid said and pointed toward the lounge.

  “This is the mop-up operation. Mainly the people who weren’t around during the first round.” He looked at her expectantly.

  “The forensics?” Ingrid reminded him.

  “You know about the blood in the bathroom?”

  Ingrid sat up straighter. “What?”

  “Across the tiles above the sink. It was only a trace—someone had obviously tried to clean up. But they didn’t manage to get it all.”

  “Has anyone questioned Carrie Foster about it?”

  “Last time I heard, she’d been sedated.”

  “Sedated?”

  “She got wind of the impostor—whoever he was—getting into her daughter’s hospital room. She became hysterical, apparently. Can’t blame her. What if it was her old man come to finish poor little Molly off? Makes my skin crawl.”

  “How is Molly?”

  “She still hasn’t regained consciousness. But the doctors are hopeful.”

  Ingrid didn’t know what a prolonged period of unconsciousness meant in terms of the child’s recovery. She decided not to dwell on the subject. “Did the CSEs find anything else?”

  “Nope. It’s possible the trace of blood belonged to a previous guest—it all depends how well the staff clean the rooms, I suppose.”

  Ingrid looked through the doorway into the lounge area. Most of the guests had completed their interviews and were starting to leave. Except for one. A purple haired senior was leaning forward in her chair. She’d grabbed the detective’s arm sitting opposite her and was squeezing it hard.

  “She seems to have something to say for herself.”

  Tyson followed her gaze. “We haven’t gleaned much so far from the other guests. No one seems to have spoken to the Fosters. I think people prefer to keep themselves to themselves in such an intimate sized establishment.”

  Ingrid rose from her seat. “Let me know if this latest round of questioning uncovers any interesting information.” She pulled a business card from her purse and handed it to him.

  “Sure, why not? It’s not as if I’m busy.”

  “I really would appreciate it.”

  He gave her a begrudging smile.

  As Ingrid walked toward the dining room exit, the purple haired woman looked up at her. “Good afternoon, ma’am,” Ingrid said when she drew level.

  “You’re American.”

  “Yes, ma’am. From the US embassy.” She extended her hand. “Agent Skyberg.”

  “Agent? That sounds official. Maybe you want to hear about what I saw yesterday. I’m not sure this young man is taking me at all seriously. It’s my age, I expect.” From the definite twang in the woman’s accent, Ingrid supposed she came from one of the Carolinas.

  The woman struggled to her feet, grabbed Ingrid’s arm and led her away to another table. She sat down and encouraged Ingrid to do the same. “My name’s Merle Simmons.”

  Tyson walked past their table and pulled a face at Ingrid behind the old woman’s back. She ignored him.

  “I saw him, you know!” The woman’s voice came out in an excited whisper. “He was as close to me as you are now.”

  “Do you mean Mr Foster?”

  “Of course I do!”

  “When was this?”

  “Yesterday morning. I was on my way down to the dining room. It was clear he’d been too mean to pay the extra supplement.”

  “I’m sorry?”<
br />
  “For breakfast. He was carrying a large McDonald’s bag. Bringing back food for his whole family, I suppose.”

  “What time was this?”

  “Eight forty-five.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Jim, my husband, and I go down to breakfast the same time every morning.”

  “I mean you’re sure about the McDonald’s bag?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be? Quite unapologetic about it too. He smiled right at me.”

  “Perhaps I could speak to your husband, confirm the details with him?”

  “You don’t need to do that, I’m quite in control of my faculties. Besides, Jim’s having his nap.”

  “You didn’t see Mrs Foster or the children?”

  “Not until we all watched the ambulance people take that poor little baby away.” She looked down at Ingrid’s hands. “Shouldn’t you be making notes? The policeman had a notebook, but once I’d told him what I’d seen, he didn’t seem to want to write anything down.”

  “I have perfect recall.” Ingrid smiled and started to get up.

  “Is that it?”

  “Did you see anything else of the family yesterday morning?”

  “Only what I’ve told you already.”

  “Then I think we’re done—thank you so much for your time.”

  “What’s happening with the little boy? Have you found him yet?”

  “Not yet, ma’am, but I’m sure we will real soon.” Ingrid wished she could believe that herself.

  She left the woman sitting in the lounge and went looking for Tyson. Why would a man who fled his hotel room in a panic, after shaking his baby senseless, return via the nearest McDonald’s? It didn’t make any sense. She was inclined to believe the old woman had been mistaken.

  She found Tyson speaking to the receptionist again.

  “You managed to escape her clutches, then?” he said, smirking slightly.

  “A quick question. Did the CSIs find any evidence of a—”

  “McDonald’s bag?”

  “Yes—how did you know I was going to say—”

  “I’ve just spoken to the DC who interviewed the batty old cow. No they bloody well didn’t find a McDonald’s bag. That old lady’s got a screw loose.”

  16

  Natasha McKittrick grabbed the last corn chip from her plate as Ingrid started to clear away the dishes. “Any more of that margarita in the fridge?”