talked to a few people now about Kyle Foster and they all tell me what a great dad he is. How they can’t imagine him doing anything to hurt his kids.”
“So what? We know he flipped. His PTSD got the better of him. Doesn’t matter how good a dad he’s been in the past.”
“But I’ve seen cases like this before. Usually the father wipes out the whole family then takes his own life. Why bother to take Tommy with him? Why get him treated at the hospital?”
“Why cause Tommy’s injuries in the first place?”
Ingrid sucked in a long breath.
Here we go.
“We don’t know for sure Kyle was responsible for hurting Tommy.”
“What?”
“Shouldn’t we at least consider the possibility that Carrie could have hurt him?”
Radcliffe didn’t answer, but Ingrid heard him expel an exasperated breath. “You’re basing this theory on what exactly?” He didn’t wait for a reply before continuing. “Nothing more than a few good words about Foster’s character?”
Ingrid hesitated again. She wasn’t sure whether she should bring it up, but Radcliffe clearly needed to be persuaded. “We searched Foster’s house,” she said, quickly.
“We?”
“Major Gurley and I. It’s on the base, Gurley has full jurisdiction.”
“And?”
“Hidden away in a dark corner of Carrie Foster’s closet was a bottle of vodka.”
“That’s the best you can do? So she likes a drink now and again.”
“Hiding booze? Surely that’s got to set alarm bells ringing.”
“Tell me you’ve got more than that.”
“Someone told me Carrie’s been having a hard time since Molly was born. The baby blues, they called it.” Ingrid waited for a response, but it didn’t come, so she plowed on. “Isn’t it worth investigating? Can we really just ignore the possibility Carrie might have hurt Molly too?”
“You’re very free and easy with the ‘we’ pronoun, aren’t you? Does Major Gurley agree with your theory?”
I don’t give a rat’s ass what Gurley thinks.
“I haven’t discussed it with him. I thought I’d run it past you first.”
“I’m honored.”
“I’d like to talk to the consultant at the hospital to discuss Molly’s injuries in detail. I was hoping you could arrange an appointment for me—it might speed the whole process up.”
“He’s a very busy man.”
“I’m sure he’d make the time if you convinced him how crucial it was to the ongoing investigation.”
Radcliffe let out another exaggerated sigh. “It’s too late to set up a meeting for today. And I want to make this quite clear—I’ll lead any interview with him. This is my investigation.”
“I know that.” Ingrid was determined not to apologize to Radcliffe again.
“I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know what I’ve managed to arrange.”
Ingrid was just about to hang up when Radcliffe said, “Molly regained consciousness half an hour ago.”
“She did? That’s fantastic.”
“I wouldn’t celebrate just yet. It’s not clear if any permanent damage has been done.”
He hung up before Ingrid had the chance to thank him for letting her know. She made her way back to the office, tapping Gurley’s number into her phone, to let him know the good news. She even had a little bounce to her step.
But as she reached the door of the office, she remembered the package her mother had sent, nestling innocently in her desk drawer.
A shiver went up her spine.
35
Ingrid was relieved to finally return home after her sojourn in Suffolk. She didn’t leave the embassy until after eight and was looking forward to a good night’s sleep in her own bed. Even though she had a feeling she was unlikely to get it. Not with Svetlana’s parcel sitting on the coffee table in the living room. She wanted to ignore it, to open it tomorrow. Or the next day. But she knew she couldn’t. She knew she wouldn’t be able to get any peace at all until she unwrapped the box and inspected each item inside.
First, though, she needed to get changed. She threw on some sweat pants and a baggy tee shirt and left her running shoes by the apartment door. After she had dealt with the package, she might feel the need to hit the well-lit and empty sidewalks of Maida Vale and St John’s Wood.
For a moment she pictured herself running across the street in Abbey Road. Her dad had been a big Beatles fan. He would have loved a photograph of her sprinting over the black and white stripes of the zebra crossing.
Her breath caught in her throat. She could go for days, or even weeks without missing her dad, but every now and then, a memory of him would catch