Deep Hurt - Eva Hudson Page 0,35

car to take you down there, if you like.” He nodded a little too enthusiastically about the idea of sending them some place else.

“You can go, agent,” Gurley told Ingrid. “I’m staying right here.”

“These… HMOs,” Ingrid said, “would the landlords rent the rooms out for cash? No questions asked?”

“Most of the tenants are on benefits… you know, welfare. So generally the rent would be paid by the local council. If any of the landlords can get their hands on actual cash up front, I expect they jump at the chance.”

“But how would Foster have gotten the boy in with him, without arousing suspicion? God knows their pictures have been all over the news.”

“That’s what we’d like to ask the landlord. We’re still trying to track him down.”

A detective who had been hovering nearby whispered something in Radcliffe’s ear.

“Oh—it’s a landlady, apparently,” Radcliffe said. “At least we’re making some progress—we know the gender, if not the location of the owner.”

Gurley was shaking his head. “How long before the negotiator arrives? How many hostage situations you got going on this morning, for crying out loud?”

“She’ll get here when she gets here.”

“A woman?”

Ingrid wheeled around and stared up into Gurley’s face accusingly.

“Hey, take it easy, agent. I’m not commenting on her abilities as a negotiator, but don’t you think after what happened with Foster’s wife and daughter… guys in the military don’t exactly have a progressive attitude when it comes to equality.”

“She’s the most experienced negotiator on the team.” Radcliffe ducked around Ingrid just so he could square up to Gurley, even though he was a good eight inches shorter than the Air Force policeman. “This is my investigation and we’re following Met protocols. Is that clear?”

Gurley shook his head resignedly. “Fine. You don’t want my help, I’ll keep my opinions to myself.”

“At last,” Radcliffe muttered.

They waited around for another five minutes until eventually the Met negotiator arrived. She disappeared with Radcliffe and two other detectives into a nearby unmarked van.

“Is that it? We don’t get to hear what she has to say? Oh come on! What happened to close liaison?” Gurley started to make his way toward the van.

“Sir! Please stop,” an officer called from a nearby patrol car. “You need to stay where you are.”

Gurley ignored him and marched on.

“Hey, come on,” Ingrid said. “We can speak to the negotiator later.”

Gurley turned and said, “I’m sick of being ignored. I’m making a perfectly reasonable request here. I’m just going to speak to the negotiator. Discuss strategy.”

“Please, I have to ask you not to get any closer to the surveillance van,” the cop called out.

Gurley spun on his heels. “What you gonna do about it?” He continued toward the van.

With just a nod from the officer, three more cops ran toward Gurley.

“Watch out, Jack!” Ingrid warned.

Gurley glanced over his shoulder, then picked up speed until he was running flat out, his long gangly arms and legs seeming not quite under his control. Just as he was reaching a hand out to the door at the back of the van, one of the cops launched himself at him. The cop flung his arms around Gurley’s shoulders, but the big MP barely lost any forward momentum. His fingers wrapped around the handle of the door.

Two more cops landed on him, each one grabbing one of Gurley’s arms. With the help of his colleagues, the cop who’d shouted the warning slapped a pair of cuffs on Gurley’s wrists. All four of them then proceeded to lead him to a patrol car, even though he wasn’t putting up any kind of resistance.

Ingrid ran over to them. “Come on, guys… cuffs? Is that strictly necessary? Tempers just got a little out of control,” she said, not quite believing the cops’ overreaction. “We’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

But the officer in charge completely ignored her.

Gurley and the group of policemen surrounding him arrived at the car. One of them opened the door and reached up to place his hand on top of Gurley’s head. The MP ducked down, bending his knees low and shouted to Ingrid, “For God’s sake, Skyberg, don’t let them screw this up.”

18

As the officer who’d cuffed Gurley walked past her, Ingrid reached out and grabbed his arm. He looked down at her hand and raised an accusative eyebrow. She quickly withdrew it.

“I do hope you’re not thinking of giving us any trouble, miss.” His tone was patronizing, his demeanor dismissive. Ingrid detected a faint Scottish accent. Edinburgh, if she wasn’t mistaken.

“My title is