Deep Hurt - Eva Hudson Page 0,37

had made no demands. And it wasn’t at all clear his son was being held against his will.

“Hostage? The poor man has just lost his wife. He’s done nothing wrong.”

Ingrid stared into the woman’s face, realizing she had to be suffering from some form of dementia. She was about to suggest to the cop that he really ought to get the confused old lady somewhere she could rest up until the situation was resolved, when a loud crash sounded from the sidewalk outside the house. A bottle had smashed on the hard pavement.

“Dear God.” The old woman crossed herself. “I hope he’s not smashing the place up. I didn’t take a deposit.”

Ingrid had already started to walk back toward the house. She stopped. “You know the man in that apartment?” she said, turning back.

“Didn’t I just say that? He’s lost his wife. That is my house. I want to get back there.”

“You rented the room to the man with the boy?” Ingrid asked.

“Who are you anyway? You don’t look like a police officer, and you have an American accent. What has all this got to do with you?”

“I work for the American embassy. I’m here because the man and boy are American.”

The woman wheezed out a cackling laugh. “Sure they are… and I’m Peruvian.”

“What did he tell you?”

“That his wife died and he’ll be taking his son back home, just as soon as his family send him the money for his plane ticket.”

“And where did he say home was?”

“He did tell me… Iran maybe… or Turkey. I don’t remember. And I don’t care, as long as I get my rent.”

“What does the man look like?”

“I don’t know, average. Dark skin, dark hair, average height.”

“And the boy?”

“Similar, except his hair is very curly.”

Ingrid lifted the blue and white police tape high in the air and guided the old lady beneath it. “I need you to come with me.”

“I can go home?”

“You have to speak to some people first.”

The uniformed cop ran from the other end of the cordon towards them. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’ll take full responsibility. Call DCI Radcliffe if you don’t believe me.” The tape had gotten caught in the woman’s hair, Ingrid gently lifted it off. But before she got a chance to start walking her down the street, a car screeched to a halt on the other side of the cordon. A familiar figure climbed out.

Ingrid’s heart sank.

19

As ever, Angela Tate had managed to arrive at a crime scene ahead of her competitors. Though the sun hadn’t yet risen and the street was bathed in a grayish half-light, the journalist spotted Ingrid immediately. She pushed her way to the front of the cordon. Just getting out of the taxi was the overweight photographer who seemed to accompany Tate on most of her assignments. He started arguing with the cab driver.

“Don’t run away, agent. Not without a quick comment for the Evening News.” The reporter stuck out an arm and shoved her digital recorder into Ingrid’s face.

“No comment.” Ingrid tried to move away but the old woman resisted.

“You’re from the newspaper?” She looked Tate up and down. “My husband always used to read the Evening News, before his eyesight failed him. So much better than the free papers they give away everywhere now.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more.” Tate gave her an uncharacteristically genuine smile, which faded quickly as she turned back to Ingrid. “Given that you’re here, I can only assume the man inside that house is First Lieutenant Kyle Foster.”

Ingrid shook her head. “You’re wrong.”

“How wet behind the ears do you actually think I am? I thought you knew me better than that by now.”

“OK—I’ll give you a comment,” Ingrid said, “but then I really have to go.”

Tate looked at her suspiciously.

“Neither Kyle Foster nor his son are in that house.”

Tate narrowed her eyes. “You really expect me to believe that?”

“Believe what you like. I’ve got to get this lady home.”

“Yes—yes that’s right,” the woman said. “I need to go to bed.”

Ingrid led the woman to the first patrol car, explained to the cop there that she had new information for DCI Radcliffe about the hostage situation, then waited while he ran to the surveillance van and banged on the door. Radcliffe’s pale, sleep-deprived face was thunderous when he emerged from the back of the truck. Nevertheless, he hurried to Ingrid, frowning at the old woman as he approached.

“It’s not Foster,” Ingrid said, cutting straight to the chase.

“Who’s this?”

Ingrid realized she’d never asked the