Deep Hurt - Eva Hudson Page 0,45

did he think he was doing?

“I’ve already told you that he hasn’t!”

Ingrid glared at Gurley.

Sherwood stood up. “I think I’ve answered enough of your questions. I’d like you to leave now.”

Reluctantly, Ingrid rose to her feet. She held out a business card to Sherwood, who folded her arms and looked away. Ingrid slipped it onto the table instead. “If he should contact you, it really would be in his best interests if you told us about it. Or the police.”

They left the bar and Ingrid strode back to the car. For once, Gurley ambled. Then he turned around and stared at the doorway of the pub, where Yvonne Sherwood and her son were standing, defiant expressions on their faces. He walked the remaining few steps backwards, keeping his gaze fixed on them.

“Thanks for your input,” Ingrid said, using all her will power not to raise her voice. “I think we really made some progress with her.”

“You know as well as I do she’s lying. You saw how uncomfortable she got. Foster could be holed up in her basement right now for all we know.”

Ingrid watched Sherwood and her son turn away from the door. There was definitely something about the woman’s demeanor that didn’t feel right. She seemed too eager to come to Foster’s defense. “OK—let’s say you’re right. Let’s say she has heard from Foster.”

“You’re actually agreeing with me?”

“If you are right, there’s only one option open to us.”

“I can have a half dozen men here in under fifteen minutes.”

“That’s not the option I had in mind.” Ingrid retrieved her cell from her purse. “I’m calling the local cops.”

23

Ingrid and Gurley were waiting outside the Hare and Hounds when the detective sergeant heading up the search of the pub appeared at the door, his head down, his hands buried deep in his pockets.

“Nothing,” he said as he approached them.

The search warrant had been arranged quickly. Ingrid and Gurley had stayed in the Oldsmobile, watching the exits of the pub while they waited for the police to arrive. The search itself had taken less than thirty minutes.

“Nothing at all?” Gurley said.

“I did spot a couple of pork pies in the kitchen well beyond their ‘best-before’ date that environmental health might want to know about. But I don’t suppose that’s something you’d be interested in.” He wrinkled his nose as if the aroma of the offending pies was lingering in his nostrils. “You still haven’t told me—what made you think Foster had come back to the area in the first place?”

Gurley shot Ingrid a look. He really should learn to trust her. As if she would say anything to contradict him. She waited with anticipation for his reply.

“A policeman’s hunch. I guess you get them all the time too, huh? The key thing is to determine which ones you should pay any attention to. On this occasion I called it wrong.”

Ingrid could see Gurley struggling to maintain a light tone. She knew he still thought he was right about Yvonne Sherwood harboring a fugitive.

“Is it possible something could have been missed? Another room inside that your men haven’t seen? You were awful fast in there.” Gurley asked.

“Do you know how much pressure is on us to track Foster down?” The cop’s previously jovial tone disappeared in an instant. Ingrid couldn’t blame him, Gurley was more or less accusing his team of being incompetent. “Are you seriously suggesting we wouldn’t do a thorough job?”

Gurley held up his hands. “OK, OK—you made your point already.”

“We’re sorry to have wasted your time on this,” Ingrid said, hoping a little polite interjection might diffuse the tension between the two men.

“Do you think maybe I could take a quick look around inside before you pack up and go?”

Gurley just wouldn’t quit.

“Unless the proprietor invites you in especially, you’re not getting anywhere near the place.” The detective shook his head in disbelief and walked away.

“What were they looking for in there? A man hiding in a closet?” Gurley said when the cop was still well within earshot.

“They know what they’re doing. Can you just admit that maybe you misjudged Sherwood?”

“And you didn’t?”

Ingrid watched the last of the cops trudge out of the pub and back to the police vehicle. “OK—I admit there was something about her that didn’t feel right. Maybe she’s importing liquor without paying taxes. It’s possible she was hiding something. It just wasn’t Foster.” Ingrid walked around to the passenger side of Gurley’s car.

“Are we going somewhere?” he asked her.

“Back to the base.”

“What for?”

“There’s