on the couch, his arm wrapped around her, his hand stroking her hair.
The insistent ring of Ingrid’s cell phone woke her. It took a moment before she managed to open her eyes. Her mouth was dry. She was curled up on the couch, wrapped in a woolen throw.
Alone.
She sat up quickly and wished she hadn’t. Her head started to pound. She found her phone by her feet. It was four-thirty in the morning. She recognized Gurley’s number and quickly swiped the answer button.
“They found the chopper,” he said brusquely.
“Have you any idea what time it is?”
“It was abandoned in a field in a place named Aylesbury—that’s only forty miles from central London. He’s come back to the capital. I was thinking maybe we should stake out the hospital.”
Ingrid ran a hand through her hair. She was barely awake. No way was she rushing to UCH on a hunch of Gurley’s at this time of the morning. “The location of the helicopter probably isn’t even relevant. Foster could be anywhere.” She tried to sit tall and straighten out the crick in her neck. Her whole body was sore as hell. “You should get some sleep. We’ll think about a strategy in the morning.”
“I’m not going to sleep until I have that sonofabitch locked in a cell.”
37
Ingrid was early for her meeting. She’d arranged with DCI Radcliffe to meet in the café in the main University College Hospital building. She grabbed herself a half decent Americano and sat at a table by the window hoping to see Radcliffe when he arrived. The café was busy, mostly occupied by patients and visitors, no doubt grateful to escape the wards and consulting rooms for a few brief moments.
With a quarter of an hour to fill, Ingrid’s mind naturally returned to the events of the night before. Or rather, the non-events. After she’d put the phone down to Gurley, she’d discovered a hastily written note Ralph had scrawled on the back of an envelope, explaining how it had gotten late, she had fallen asleep and he thought it best to leave, in the circumstances. He’d signed it with his initials. It seemed a little formal, given she’d pretty much poured her heart out to him. Ever since she’d read it she’d been worrying something had happened that she had no memory of. Had she really been that wasted? The vodka bottle had been half full when she started drinking. When she woke up at four-thirty it was empty. Had she just passed out? What did he mean, ‘in the circumstances’? Had she said or done something embarrassing? Offended him, maybe?
She buried her head in her hands. She was driving herself crazy asking the same questions over and over. The more she tried to remember of the night, the more her brain stubbornly refused to recall anything more than the feel of his hand on her hair. Or the smell of his skin.
Good God. Had she blown her chance of starting something serious with the only man she’d met in a long time that she actually gave a damn about?
She retrieved her phone from her purse, and, not for the first time that morning, scrolled to his number in her contacts list. Her finger hovered over the call option.
She couldn’t do it.
Instead she called Mike Stiller.
“Jesus, Skyberg. It’s not even seven a.m. What’s the matter with you?”
“Are you seriously telling me I woke you up?”
“As it goes, I’m on my way to the office. But I coulda been wrapped up in bed.”
“Sure. You’d live at Bureau HQ if someone put a cot next to your desk.”
“I guess you’re calling for another update. Even though the woman isn’t your friend.”
Ingrid took a sip of coffee. “I can’t let this one go now. I owe it to Megan’s mom to see it through.” She owed her a whole lot more besides.
“I do have more news, but you might not want to hear it.”
“Nothing you tell me can be worse than what I’ve been imagining.”
“You might want to brace yourself anyways.”
Ingrid put down the coffee cup.
“They’ve started to recover some remains buried underneath the basement floor and in the backyard.”
Ingrid swallowed. She’d figured the perp wouldn’t have been satisfied with just three abductions. “How many?”
“So far they’ve identified bones from three different bodies. All female. All probably under forty years of age.”
“So far? There could be more?”
“Maybe close to a dozen, according to my sources.”
“Jesus, Mike.”
“I know.”
“And they’re still no closer to tracking him down?”
“Getting closer. Maybe. The theory