of Tommy’s blood on that?”
“You won’t find any. Why would you?”
“Oh I realize you must have cleaned it several times since Monday. That makes perfect sense. But you’d be surprised just how stubbornly small traces of DNA evidence can cling on to things. Fortunately we’ll also be taking samples from the inside of your handbag. I presume that’s where you shoved the hairbrush before you left the hotel room? Such presence of mind not to leave it behind. One might say it was calculated.”
Ingrid stared at the monitor showing a close-up of Radcliffe’s face. His expression seemed almost smug.
“Can we stop this now?” Carrie Foster turned to her lawyer. “I have nothing to add to my previous statement.”
“I’m afraid we have more questions for you to refuse to answer.” Radcliffe handed the evidence bag to Tyson, who hurried to the door and passed it to the female detective waiting on the other side for it.
“Perhaps you’ll feel more like talking if we shift to a slightly different subject,” the DCI said.
Mrs Foster frowned at him suspiciously.
“Tell me about the circumstances surrounding your husband’s departure from the hotel room.”
Her expression switched from suspicion to confusion in an instant. “He snatched Tommy and ran. What else is there to say?”
Radcliffe tilted his head to one side. “I mean his earlier departure.”
“After he hurt Molly?”
Radcliffe said nothing.
“He threw Molly onto the bed and rushed past me. He nearly knocked me over. I’ve already told you that.”
“And he returned less than twenty minutes later. A full seven minutes after you called for an ambulance.”
“I wasn’t exactly taking notice of the time.”
“No—of course not. Let me run through some of the events of that twenty-five minute period. According to your account, and what we’ve been able to piece together with the aid of CCTV footage…” Radcliffe turned to the lawyer. “Details are on the second page.” He straightened his spine and pulled back his shoulders, as if he were preparing himself for a long speech. “Shortly after Mr Foster allegedly shook your daughter and threw her onto the bed, he ran out of the hotel room—presumably in somewhat of an agitated state—and then down several flights of stairs, through the reception area and onto the street.”
“I guess.”
“It’s surprising none of the other guests at the hotel can remember witnessing this hurried departure. Not a single one of them.”
Carrie Foster shrugged. The tension in her shoulders increased as she leaned away from the table. She looked like a woman bracing herself for a blow.
“Anyway,” Radcliffe continued, “Mr Foster then proceeded to walk half a mile south along Southampton Row and arrived at a McDonald’s restaurant on High Holborn, where he ordered two breakfast wraps, pancakes and syrup, a raspberry and white chocolate muffin, two black coffees and three bottles of orange juice. He then returned to the hotel, a large McDonald’s paper bag under his arm, and made his way to your room.”
Mrs Foster dragged down her top lip with her bottom teeth.
“Seems a strange thing to do, really. Purchasing a family breakfast after his supposed violent outburst.”
“You’ve made a mistake.”
“CCTV footage from the restaurant in question confirms his movements. Fully time-stamped. No mistake, Mrs Foster.”
In the observation room, Gurley had started to shake his head. He let out a long sigh. “Sweet Jesus,” he whispered.
Carrie Foster’s lawyer closed the file in front of her. “I need to discuss this evidence privately with my client.” She glanced at Mrs Foster, who was staring, wide-eyed at the table. She had bitten her top lip so hard it had started to bleed.
Radcliffe started to get to his feet. “Certainly. I’ll get one of our constables to escort you to another room.”
Tyson leaned toward the digital recorder.
“No!” Foster said and raised a hand to her mouth.
“We really need to talk about this Carrie,” the lawyer insisted.
Carrie Foster shook her head. “I just want to get back to the hospital. Please. I need to see Molly.”
48
During the unscheduled break, Ingrid and Gurley had sat in the observation room in silence. At one point DS Tyson stuck his head around the door, a self-satisfied grin on his face. Ingrid wasn’t sure what he had to be so smug about—it wasn’t that long ago he and Radcliffe were certain of Kyle Foster’s guilt.
“Can I get you anything?” he asked.
“We’re fine, thanks,” Ingrid said, answering for them both, unsure if Gurley was capable of saying anything. His face had now lost all its color. He seemed really shaken.
“You’re sure?” Tyson frowned at Gurley.