Deep Hurt Page 2

It seemed to Ingrid a pretty lame excuse. Why didn’t he just come right out and admit his loyalties lay with his old friend, Marshall Claybourne?

  “Hey, I’m not asking you for classified information, just a little heads up on a current case. It’s really important.”

  Mike didn’t say anything. Normally his curiosity would have gotten the better of him.

  “Just a couple phone calls to your contacts in the Minneapolis field office,” she said.

  “All our calls are monitored now.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “The new boss is pretty tough. Takes no prisoners, you know what I mean?”

  “Come on, Mike, it can’t be—”

  “It’s Marshall, OK?”

  “What?”

  “The new boss—it’s Marshall. Started last month. He’s busy trying to prove himself right now. I’m sure he’ll mellow with time.”

  “But I thought he was your friend.”

  “I guess only when I was useful to him.”

  Ingrid wondered if maybe he was getting at her, but quickly dismissed the notion. Marshall’s demands would be in a whole different league to hers. Obviously the breaking off of their engagement had done nothing to diminish his determination to haul himself up the greasy pole. She didn’t know if she felt relieved or disappointed that the end of their relationship had affected him so little.

  “Listen, I’m sorry it didn’t work out for you guys,” Mike said after a long pause.

  “It was on the cards. You and me can still be friends, right?”

  “Sure we can. But getting you intel? It’s just not possible. Right now I gotta keep my nose clean. Marshall already got two agents transferred. And I like working here.”

  Ingrid wasn’t sure what to say. Mike was still her best hope of getting all the information she needed, as fast as she needed it.

  “Hey, are you OK?” he asked her.

  “Fine.” She could already hear Svetlana’s mocking tone when she told her that the one time she’d asked for Ingrid’s help, she’d failed to deliver. “If you can’t help me, then I guess I do have to find somebody else who… I mean I need to…

  “You sure you’re OK? You don’t sound fine. What’s going on?”

  “I should let you get back to work. I don’t want you getting crap from Marshall on my account.” Her voice wavered and she let out an involuntary sob.

  “I’m so sorry—I didn’t realize you were so cut up about Marshall.”

  “God, I’m not! No way!”

  “It’s OK—I understand. You guys were together for a long time.”

  “It’s not Marshall, I swear.”

  “Then what the hell…?”

  Ingrid took a moment to compose herself. “I guess you must know about the case in Blue Earth County? The rescued abductees?”

  “It’s impossible to avoid it.” She could hear him breathing noisily at the other end of the line. “Wait a minute, don’t you come from around there?”

  This was the part she’d been dreading. In the two years she’d worked with Mike out of the D.C. office, she’d managed to avoid the subject of Megan Avery entirely, even when she’d surprised him by putting in a transfer request to the Violent Crimes Against Children Unit. “The house where they found the girls is thirty miles from my home town.” She could feel her throat tightening. “Megan, my best friend, was abducted eighteen years ago. I need to know if she’s one of the women they found.” She stalled and took a breath.

  “Jesus Christ. I had no idea. Tell me what you need.”

  Ingrid swallowed, grateful Mike hadn’t asked her for any more details about Megan’s disappearance. “All the information the local feds gather in as close to real time as you can get it. Including any audio or video interviews the witnesses, victims, or suspects participate in. I don’t want to get information from FBI reports, I want the facts straight from the source.”

  “That’s gonna be tough.”

  “I wouldn’t ask if it didn’t mean so much to me.”

  “Sure. I understand.”

  “Can you do it?”

  Mike didn’t answer right away. Ingrid wondered if maybe Marshall had just stepped into the office.

  “Mike?”

  “I’ll make some calls. I can’t promise anything—it might take a little while to set up. You want me to send files to your private email account?”

  “Please. This is strictly between you and me.” Ingrid swallowed again. Just mentioning Megan’s name to Mike had been tougher than she’d imagined. “As soon as you get positive IDs for any of the three women, you will let me know?”

  “You didn’t even need to ask.”

  “Thanks, Mike.” She hung up and leaned back in her seat. She’d been squeezing her cell phone so tightly it had left deep indentations in her right hand. She concentrated hard on forcing the muscles in her neck and shoulders to relax.

  Mike Stiller had never let her down before. She prayed this time would be no exception. She planted a hand across her forehead and leaned her elbow on the desk. All she could do now was wait.

  “Jeez—I guess you really need this, huh?” Jennifer said as she appeared at the door. “Sorry I was so long. The line at the cafeteria took forever. I think the espresso machine isn’t working properly.” She carefully placed the small cardboard cup on Ingrid’s desk.

  Before Ingrid had a chance to drink any coffee her landline started to ring. She stared at the phone for a moment, trying to get her head together.

  “Want me to get that?” Jennifer asked.

  “It’s OK.” The words came out louder and harder than she’d meant. “Hey—thanks for the coffee.”

  The clerk smiled back at her and returned to her desk. Ingrid answered the call.

  “Agent Skyberg, US embassy.”

  “Hello, this is the duty sergeant, calling from Holborn Police Station, I’ve been asked to inform you about an incident that happened earlier today at a hotel in Bloomsbury.”

  Ingrid grabbed pen and paper from her desk. “Give me the details, sergeant.”

  “I don’t have them all, this is a courtesy call, more than anything.”

  “Give me what you got.”

  “American family, husband went on the rampage, attacked his baby daughter and left her for dead.”

  “Left her? Has he been apprehended?”

  “No. He snatched his eight-year-old son and took the boy with him. He’s still on the loose.”

  Ingrid’s pen remained poised over the notebook. “When did this happen? How long has he been out there?” She heard the rustling of paper.

  “Haven’t been given an exact time—earlier this morning.”

  “And what about the wife? Where is she?”

  “At the hospital.”

  “He attacked her too?”

  More rustling.

  “No, that doesn’t appear to be the case.”

  “Is there someone else I can speak to who has more information?”

  “Sorry, no, not at the moment. The bulk of the team are at the hotel. The rest are at the hospital.”

  “Which hospital?”

  The sergeant gave her the address and hung up.

  Ingrid grabbed her jacket from the back of the chair and her purse from the drawer beneath the desk. Over the last eight months she’d gotten used to being the last to find out about incidents when they occurred, but had never received such limited information about a case before. She tried not to read too much into it, and headed for the door.

  4

  Ingrid parked her motorcycle on Chenies Street and walked three blocks north to the rear entrance of University College Hospital. Although she’d never before set foot inside the building during her eight months in London, she had often been struck by its appearance. It looked more like a skyscraper office block than a hospital: seventeen stories of tinted green windows and pearly white cladding towering over the intersection between Euston and Tottenham Court Roads. She supposed from the top few floors
the patients must get a pretty impressive view of the whole of London.

  A plain clothes detective was waiting for her just inside the entrance when she arrived.

  “Agent Skyberg?” the muscular man in the cheap gray suit asked Ingrid as she glanced around the expansive reception area.

  She nodded back at him. Unruly tufts of shortish dark blond hair stuck out from his scalp at different angles. His face was covered in stubble and the shirt beneath his jacket was a little crumpled. Ingrid suspected he’d had an unplanned early start.

  “I’m Detective Sergeant Brad Tyson, I believe our duty sergeant has passed on the details of the case to you.” He guided her toward a wide corridor to the right of the entrance, three elevators on each side.

  “Actually, the details were a little sketchy.” Ingrid saw no point in criticizing the duty sergeant’s reticence. She didn’t want her relationship with the investigating team to start off on the wrong foot.

  “Let me bring you right up to speed, then.” After pressing the ‘up’ button of the express elevator he stood back and studied her face for a moment. “If you think that’s strictly necessary, in the circumstances.”

  “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “I’ve had the embassy’s role explained to me. I know when an American citizen is involved in a crime—victim or perpetrator—you like to keep an eye on the investigation, offer assistance, write your report, etcetera, etcetera.”

  He had just made her job sound almost an irrelevance, but Ingrid did her best to ignore his dismissive tone. She said nothing, just nodded at him encouragingly so that he might actually get to the point.

  “But with the Air Force so closely involved in this case, I suppose the US government is pretty well represented already.”

  “Air Force? What do you mean?”

  Before Tyson could answer, the elevator doors opened to reveal a crush of bodies crammed inside. Ingrid and the detective stepped to one side as the occupants started to pile out. Two or three were on crutches, a couple more, hooked up to IV machines, clutched packs of cigarettes in their spare hands. A man in a wheelchair trundled out at speed, without looking where he was going. Ingrid wondered how they’d all managed to breathe in such a confined space.

  “It’s a very busy hospital,” Tyson said by way of explanation.

  Ingrid and Tyson eventually managed to make it into the elevator, followed by another twenty or so people. Most of them were carrying bags of apples and grapes and a variety of less healthy snacks, with magazines and newspapers tucked under their arms. All of them had weary expressions on their faces.

  During the ascent, Tyson made banal small talk and Ingrid played along, just as keen to be discreet. But once the elevator stopped at the eleventh floor and Tyson pushed a path to the front, Ingrid following in his wake, the doors had barely closed before she repeated her earlier question. Her tone more urgent this time.

  “Tell me exactly who is involved in this investigation.”

  “I assumed you knew.”

  Ingrid now suspected the details she’d been given earlier weren’t so much sketchy as deliberately vague. “Let’s assume I know nothing at all and start over, shall we?”

  “The US Air Force have sent one of their Security Forces officers.” Tyson headed down the stark white, brightly-lit corridor and Ingrid followed. The further they walked from the elevator lobby, the more she could detect the familiar aroma of every hospital she’d ever visited. It was a mix of sterilizing alcohol, disinfectant and something non-specific—a smell Ingrid always associated with illness and disease.

  “You’re telling me the man we’re looking for is a serving officer?” she asked as they pushed through a set of double doors.

  “First Lieutenant Kyle Foster, stationed at RAF Freckenham in Suffolk.”

  “And exactly what authority does this Security Forces officer have?”

  “I’ll introduce you to the major shortly. He can tell you himself.”

  “He’s already here?” Ingrid stopped walking, forcing Tyson to do the same. “You informed the Air Force before you contacted the embassy?”

  Tyson looked at her indignantly, as if she were questioning his competence personally, rather than the protocol of the Metropolitan Police in general.

  “We needed good quality photographs of Foster and his son. We had to contact the base first.”

  “And you couldn’t inform the embassy at the same time?”

  “You’ll have to bring up any complaints with DCI Radcliffe. He’s the senior investigating officer.” He started walking again.

  “Wait a minute.” Ingrid wanted more information before she walked all over whatever relationship the military policeman had managed to establish with the investigating team. “How long has the ‘Major’ been here?”

  Detective Sergeant Tyson slowly came to halt and turned to face her, an irritated expression on his face. “An hour or so, why?”

  “You’ve given him all the facts of the case?”

  “Only as far as we know them. We’re still waiting to speak to Mrs Foster to find out exactly what happened this morning.”

  “You haven’t spoken to her yet?”

  He took a step backwards and looked up at the ceiling, his irritation clearly mounting. “She’s been too distraught. Wanted to be at Molly’s side. In case she came round.”

  “Her daughter’s still alive?”

  Tyson narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t even know that?”

  “I told you—the details I’ve been given are sketchy at best.”

  “Molly’s sustained head injuries. She’s unconscious. Hooked up to so many machines you can barely see her for all the leads and wires.”

  “Is she going to be all right?”

  Tyson shrugged. “Doctors can’t tell us that. Not yet.”

  “I’d like to speak to Mrs Foster. She’s an American citizen. She needs to know the embassy will help any way we can.”

  “You’ll have to go to the back of the queue. DCI Radcliffe’s going to interview to her soon. With Major Gurley.”

  “The MP?”

  “I think he prefers to be called a Security Forces officer.”

  Ingrid didn’t give a damn want he preferred. As far as she was concerned all armed services cops were cut from the same cloth. “I want to be part of that interview.”

  Tyson shook his head. “Not my decision to make—you’ll have to speak to the DCI about it.” He continued down the corridor, marching toward another set of double doors.

  As Ingrid hurried to catch up she wondered just how much access DCI Radcliffe was planning on giving her. It seemed the Air Force MP had everything sewn up. She needed to make him understand just what the pecking order should be here.

  Tyson pushed through the doors and pointed to a couple of chairs lined up against the corridor wall. “Make yourself as comfortable as you can. There’s a vending machine just through those doors. The coffee’s drinkable, but the tea is disgusting. And however desperate you get, don’t be tempted by the soup—croutons or not, it tastes like dishwater.”

  “You really just expect me to sit and wait?”

  The detective shrugged. “Sit down, stand up. It’s up to you.”

  “Take me to the SIO—I need to speak to him.”

  “He’ll speak to you when he can. He’s tied up right now.” He tried to move past Ingrid, but she blocked his path.

  “Tied up doing what?”

  “I’m not sure that’s any of your business.”

  “OK—where’s the Security Forces guy?”

  “Major Gurley’s with the DCI.”

  “Great—I can meet them both at the same time.” Ingrid hurried to the first door along the corridor and tried the handle: it was locked. She moved on to the second. “You could just tell me where they are. Save me interrupting someone else’s meeting.” Before she reached the second door, another, diagonally opposite, opened abruptly and a very tall man dressed in gray and white camouflage battledress sto
od in the doorway, his head turned towards the room. Ingrid rushed over to him. “Major Gurley?”

  He spun around to face her. He was late thirties, with a tanned complexion and blond buzz cut. His features were chiseled, his jawline lean, his eyes pale blue. He wore a puzzled expression, but the quizzical smile faded once he glanced towards Tyson.

  Ingrid stuck out a hand. “I’m Agent Ingrid Skyberg, from the FBI’s Legal Attaché program at the embassy. I’ve been assigned to this case.”

  Bemused, his gaze switching quickly from Ingrid to Tyson and back again, Gurley shook her hand. “Pleasure to meet you, agent.”

  He was joined in the doorway by an ashen-faced man in his early fifties dressed in a suit that looked far too expensive to afford on a cop’s salary.

  Ingrid introduced herself again.

  “DCI Paul Radcliffe.” His mouth twitched upwards at the corners. “I think you may have had a wasted journey.”

  “This is a matter for the US Air Force Security Forces, agent. No need for the FBI to get involved,” Gurley said. “I’ve got it covered.” He gave her a warm smile. If it hadn’t been for the content of what he’d just said, Ingrid might almost have believed it was genuine.

  She didn’t smile back.

  “Now, I can provide you with an update each day, or a digest every forty-eight hours, if you’d prefer. Though I’d hope we can have First Lieutenant Foster safely in custody by the end of today.”

  “Police custody,” Radcliffe added, either for Gurley’s benefit or hers.

  “Of course,” Gurley turned his smile on Radcliffe. This time there was no mistaking its insincerity. Ingrid supposed the DCI wasn’t fooled by it for a moment.

  “If you could excuse us, detectives.” Ingrid turned first to Radcliffe, then quickly to Tyson. She could be as polite as Gurley if that was the game he had chosen to play. She started to walk away. When the tall military policeman didn’t follow she said, “Major Gurley? If you have a moment?”

  “Please—call me Jack,” he said and with two long strides was standing beside her.

  “I don’t know whose orders you’re following, but after the Metropolitan Police Force, the FBI has jurisdiction. If anyone has had a wasted journey, it’s you. I’m sorry you’ve traveled all the way from Suffolk unnecessarily.” She forced a smile. “Naturally, I can give you regular updates.”