Deep Hurt - Eva Hudson Page 0,12

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