as Foster.
The guy in uniform introduced himself as Assistant Deputy Commissioner Trevor Twyford, then went on to explain how Detective Chief Inspector Paul Radcliffe would be leading the investigation. Twyford outlined the details of the case, referring regularly to a stack of printed notes sitting on the table in front of him, reading from them as if he were discovering the information for the first time. When he was done he opened the floor for questions.
“I hope putting Carrie Foster through this ordeal pays off,” Gurley whispered to Ingrid as a dozen arms went up at the front of the hall. “Look at her. She’s close to collapse.”
“I expect she’s tougher than she looks.” In Ingrid’s limited experience, military wives had to be resilient in order to survive. “Besides, she knows this might really help locate Tommy.”
“As long as this press conference doesn’t just generate a shit storm of unverifiable sightings.”
“Do you have a better strategy?”
“I have some ideas.”
“However we may feel about the way the police are handling this, we have to play along. It’s delicate politically—you heard what Sol Franklin said yesterday. We’re guests in this country and right now one of our compatriots is wanted for attempted murder and abduction. I think, on the surface at least, we follow the Met’s lead.”
“On the surface? What’s that supposed to mean?”
Before Ingrid had a chance to respond, a voice she recognized hollered a question from somewhere near the back of the hall. She might have known Angela Tate would turn up at such a high profile media conference. Ingrid desperately scanned the room to pinpoint the journalist’s exact location, just so she could avoid her later, but she couldn’t see her anywhere. When Tate didn’t get a response from the Assistant Deputy Commissioner right away, she hollered her question again even louder.
“Is the man armed?” she yelled. “You just warned that the public should not approach him—does that mean he’s carrying a weapon?”
“We very much doubt that’s the case.” DCI Radcliffe answered.
“Doubt? You don’t know for sure?”
“Kyle Foster wouldn’t have had an opportunity to obtain a firearm.”
“But you don’t know for sure?” she said again.
“Who is that lady?” Gurley asked, “and why the hell doesn’t she just shut up and sit down?”
“She’s an investigative reporter working for the Evening News—the main London newspaper. She has the ability of a bloodhound to sniff out a story and the tenacity of a Russell Terrier not to let go once she’s found it.”
“You know her?”
Tate had crossed her path more times than Ingrid would have liked. But she wasn’t about to give Gurley a potted history. She raised a finger to her lips. A hush had descended on the room as, with trembling hands, Carrie Foster shuffled through a stack of paper in front of her. She cleared her throat.
“Jesus Christ.” Gurley shook his head.
“Yesterday morning, Molly, my beautiful baby girl, almost died. Right now she’s hooked up to a hundred and one machines that are helping to keep her alive. But at least I know she’s safe. My boy, Tommy, is out there somewhere and he’s in danger. I need everyone out there to help the police find him.”
Mrs Foster was reading from a sheet in front of her. It seemed so emotive, Ingrid wondered if someone had written the statement for her. It was certainly having the desired effect on the cynical reporters present: they hadn’t made a sound.
For the next five minutes, Carrie Foster explained, blow-by-blow, exactly what happened to her and her children the day before. It was the same account she’d given the detectives. Her voice cracked and quavered as she spoke, but she carried on, describing Kyle Foster’s PTSD and making it plain just how unstable he had become in recent months.
“But he’s still my husband,” she said. “I didn’t feel I could tell anyone that his condition was getting worse. I so deeply regret now that I didn’t. Worst decision of my entire life. If I’d thought for a moment that… that…” Her final words got caught up in a sob. The bottle of water was shoved in front of her. She ignored it and stared directly toward the bank of television cameras. With tears streaming down her face, she said, “Please bring him back to me, Kyle. Please don’t hurt my precious boy.” Those were her final words before she started to sob uncontrollably.
The family liaison officer jumped up, helped Foster to her feet and led her out of the hall by a side