Deep Hurt - Eva Hudson Page 0,13

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 my 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