her son. Trying to appeal to her husband’s sense of duty, loyalty. Playing on his conscience—if he has one. And if all that fails to elicit the desired response, she’ll be appealing to the great British public.”
“So that more crackpots and loony toons call the police and waste even more time? You really think that’s gonna help any?” Gurley thumped the desk with his fist and made Jennifer jump. “I’m sorry, miss.”
Ingrid could see Sol struggling to control his reaction to Gurley’s obstructiveness. “I know this operation is outside your normal working procedures, but we have to be flexible and adapt. We’ve got to pull together.” He looked from Gurley to Ingrid. “Can we agree to that at least?”
“Not a problem for me,” Ingrid said.
“I don’t have any choice, do I?”
“We’ll reconvene here tomorrow after the press conference.”
The muscles in Gurley’s jaw were working overtime. “Where is this police incident room?”
“Holborn Police Station,” Jennifer told him.
He looked at her blankly.
“Around two miles from here,” Ingrid said.
“If that’s where all this valuable intel will come from, why are we here instead of there?”
Ingrid supposed it was a good point, but knew that Sol would have had his own reasons to bring Major Gurley to the embassy, presumably to get some measure of the man.
“I’m sure that will be your next stop, Jack—may I call you Jack?”
Gurley nodded but didn’t seem enthusiastic about the idea.
“But first I’d like to discuss First Lieutenant Foster’s service history with you.”
“I don’t actually know the man.”
“But since you were informed of this morning’s tragic events, you must have read his personal file?”
“I’ve perused it. Dry facts and figures tend not to help in these situations.”
“Before you left the base, I’m guessing you had a chance to speak to the doctor who’s treating him for PTSD?” Ingrid asked.
“She wasn’t available. I’m still waiting for a call.”
“But you’ve read his medical report?”
Jennifer handed Ingrid a sheaf of papers held together in the top left-hand corner by a paperclip.
“What’s this?” she asked the clerk.
“I only just finished putting it together. It’s everything we have on Kyle Foster.”
“That’s Defense Department classified information. You have no authority to look at that.” Gurley reached out a hand, but Ingrid was too fast for him, she snatched away the report.
“I can print you one too, if you’d like, major?” The clerk smiled at him.
Gurley hadn’t taken his eyes off Ingrid as she leafed through the pages. “That won’t be necessary, thank you, Miss Rocharde.”
“Did you know Foster has been flying drone missions for the last two years?” Ingrid said. She scanned down to the bottom of the page.
Dear God.
“You’ve read this, Sol?”
The assistant deputy chief nodded gravely at her.
“It says he was responsible for the deaths of at least twenty-two women and children in a single mission in February 2011.” She swallowed and turned the page. The more she read, the more she wished she hadn’t. “The targets were meant to be arms silos and fuel depots, but the missiles ended up hitting a school in village just outside Hajjah. She looked directly at Gurley. “You knew about the civilian casualties in the drone attacks?”
Gurley let out a breath and clenched his jaw, as if he’d been expecting the question. “You’re always going to get collateral damage in a war situation.”
“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