The Locker Read online

  She took out her cell phone and dialled the office. It was time to get a team in. She gave directions on how to reach the rear gate, listened for a few seconds, then said to Vaslik, “Come on, let’s go ask more questions. This time, try to be nice.”

  They found Nancy in the same position, as if welded to the spot. Her face looked drawn, but there were no more signs of tears. Cried out for now, Ruth guessed, the well gone dry.

  The notepad was on the coffee table, covered in neat handwriting.

  “Done?”

  “Yes. I’m not sure it will help much.” Her voice was flat with defeat, as if writing down the details had added another layer of doubt about the people close to her.

  Ruth ignored the pad. Making sense of it would come later. For now the questions were the priority.

  “The team is on its way. They’re also sending someone to stay with you—a woman named Gina Fraser. If you’re agreeable, she’ll use Tiggi’s room.”

  She’d been surprised by the selection of Gina Fraser for this job. A former member of the Diplomatic Protection Group responsible for guarding government ministers and foreign embassies, she had only recently returned to work. After joining Cruxys she had been assigned to support a wealthy Qatari family who had incurred the wrath of a rival family by denying the marriage of their daughter to the other family’s son. The marriage had been aimed at healing a historical tribal rift. What had at first seemed an inter-family spat had quickly turned violent. Two of the spurned son’s uncles had arrived from Qatar, threatening consequences for the perceived insult. Gina Fraser, seen as the outward “face” of the family, had been targeted and shot twice as a warning.

  She had nearly died. After two operations and months of therapy, she had come back, but Ruth wondered if she was back to full form. If anything blew up here, the consequences could be awkward. But she bit her tongue; it wasn’t her job to second-guess the Cruxys selection process.

  “Why send someone else?” Nancy looked worried. “I thought you’d be staying here.” She didn’t include Vaslik, his presence clearly discounted.

  “We can’t, not all the time; we need to be out there looking for Beth, following up any leads.”

  “Like what? What have you found?” She leaned forward, instantly alert.

  “Nothing yet. There are a number of things we have to do, such as checking Tiggi’s background, talking to the people at the gym … and to the charity Michael’s working for. For that we’ll need a contact number and name.”

  “Oh.” Nancy’s shoulders slumped at the mundane sound to the list.

  “You have to realise that the kidnappers might wait a couple of days before contacting you again. It’s better if Gina’s here full-time to support you. You can trust her—she’s very good at what she does. She and the team will come in through the back gate. They know what to do, so you don’t need to do anything. Right now I need to go over a few things with you about your husband.”

  “Why?” She seemed disconcerted by the sudden change in tactics, and Ruth put it down to stress. It was something she was going to have to get used to.

  “Simply because he was mentioned specifically. They want him to know what happened. Why? Like I said before, this is not about you and not even Beth. It’s about something else … maybe something your husband knows or did. But until the kidnappers come back and tell you what they want, we’re in the dark.”

  “You think they will contact us?”

  “For sure.” Vaslik spoke from by the front window, his voice was soft. “Kidnappers work for profit—for an outcome. The note they left tells us that. We have to find out what that outcome might be, what they’re willing to risk being caught for. Maybe they’ll tell us soon. If we can make a connection, it gives us a lead on who could have planned this. Who stands to gain by it.” He spoke fluidly, clearly experienced with such events, then added carefully, “I want to apologise for what I said earlier. It was rude of me.”

  Both women looked at him in surprise, Ruth especially.

  Nancy shrugged, said nothing.

  “Right,” Ruth said, to puncture the silence, and took out the recorder and placed it on the table. “Let’s do this. Have you tried contacting your husband again?”

  “Yes. Just now.” She indicated the cordless phone on the seat beside her.

  “And?”

  “It went to voicemail. He’s probably out on a field trip. The local coverage could be patchy or nonexistent. I left a message.”

  “May I?” Ruth picked up the phone and touched redial. A standard voicemail robot, sexless and bland. She put the phone down. “Where can we find his employers?”

  “I tried the only number I’ve got. There’s no answer.”

  “Is that normal?”

  “I don’t know—I don’t often have to tell them my daughter’s been kidnapped.” She shook her head in irritation. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that. The charities he works for … they’re not mainline; they often work from temporary offices with minimum staff, putting all the money into field operations and resources.”

  “We’ll need the address details.”

  “I’ll look.” Nancy stood up and left the room. Ruth and Vaslik exchanged looks but said nothing. When Nancy came back she was carrying a ring binder. She flipped it open, frowned when she found what she was looking for, then scribbled on a post-it note.

  She handed it over. “Sorry—that’s all I’ve got.”

  Ruth checked it. It was a phone number. “Does this charity have a name?”

  “Probably, but I don’t know what it is. I told you—he works for more than one. I forget which one this is.”

  Ruth handed the note to Vaslik, who took out his cell phone and walked into the hallway.

  To get her back to talking, Ruth asked, “What did your husband do before the charity thing?”

  Nancy frowned. “All sorts. I think he worked in the city for a while, then he got tired of it and decided to do something worthwhile.”

  “Did he make any money?”

  “No. It wasn’t that kind of job. I think it was more admin than anything. He never spoke about previous jobs—I don’t think he considered them of value compared to what he does now.”

  “So he’s an idealist?”

  “Is that wrong?”

  “Not at all. How did you meet him?”

  For the first time there was the ghost of a smile. “I was in Paris, helping at a business conference. I used to work in marketing. I was walking past Sacré Coeur during a break and snapped the heel of my shoe on a cobblestone. God, I was so embarrassed. But suddenly, there he was. He came to my rescue and got me a cab to my hotel. We started dating when I got back to London.”

  “How romantic. And he was a charity worker then?”

  “Yes. I believe he was with Oxfam at the time. But he left them not long afterwards to go freelance. He said there were lots of smaller organisations who needed all the help they could get without paying big bucks to their staff.” She lifted her shoulders. “If that makes him something of an idealist, then I guess he is.”

  “What places did he work?” Vaslik had re-entered the room. He was juggling his phone in one hand.

  “Mostly in Africa. He was a field coordinator and travelled all over.”

  “Name some names,” said Ruth.

  She hesitated, blinking, as if her mind was mired in glue. Then she said, “Rwanda, Mali, Somalia … countries where they’ve had the guts ripped out by war, famine, disease—you name it. I can’t remember where else—he goes wherever he’s needed.”

  Ruth glanced at Vaslik. “None of them gel for me.” When she received a nod of agreement she added, “Where else—away from Africa?”

  “I don’t know. Places—I forget where.”

  “Did you ever go to any of these ‘places?’”

  “No. He never inv
ited me. It was hardly likely to be a holiday, was it? Anyway, I’d have been in the way, excess baggage.” The words were tinged with a trace of sadness, and she added, “Sorry—I didn’t mean that.”

  “Fair enough.” Ruth stood up and Vaslik moved towards the door.

  “You’re going already?” Nancy sounded alarmed.

  “We have to. We’ve got things to do if we want to get on top of this. Gina Fraser’s on her way and should be here in a few minutes. She’ll stay here with you. We’ll be back, though, soon enough.” She had a thought. “The gym you go to. Are you a card-carrying member?”

  “Yes. It’s called Fitness Plus.”

  “How do you check in?”

  “Members have a swipe-card to open the gate through to the inside.”

  “Do you ever speak to the receptionists?”

  “Not really. They’re usually busy with other people. It’s the way I prefer it; I can come and go as I please.”

  “How often do you go and at what times?”

  “Three times a week, sometimes more—always in the morning. I get there just after nine. It’s quieter then, after the early office workers have left. Why all these questions?”

  “Because somebody knew which locker you used and the time you’d be there.”

  Nancy’s eyes went wide at the implication. “You think a member of staff put the card there?”

  Ruth resisted the temptation to go “Duh.” Instead she said, “Possibly. It’s too early to say. Question is, who else would know your routine? Your check-in time would be on the computer, and it’s not difficult to keep an eye on a regular visitor without them noticing. Do you always use the same locker?”

  “Yes. It’s nearest the door and handy. No. 2. It’s got a safety pin holding the key. I know—stupid.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up,” murmured Vaslik. “We’re creatures of habit; even cops and emergency workers. We all like to use the same locker; it’s like a talisman, unchanging and familiar.” His tone suggested that it was a habit he didn’t actually share.

  “I can’t believe this,” Nancy replied, looking uneasy. “I mean, I hardly know anyone here in the street, and even less so at the gym. I’m sure I’d have noticed if anyone was watching me.”

  “Did you ever see any of the workers hanging around while you were there?”

  “No. The reception area is out of sight and the staff members are always on the go.”

  “Exactly. They walk by and you don’t notice; they wipe down a piece of equipment but you don’t see them. They are workers, not people.”

  Nancy didn’t reply, but blinked, her eyes distraught.

  eight

  Nancy watched them through the front window, and felt a bubble of panic rise in her chest. She had hated them being here, the woman almost as much as the man, her sex meaningless in the question of strangers probing her life and her home, silent invaders asking questions that surely had nothing whatsoever to do with finding Beth. Box-ticking, that was all it had been; going through the motions like a real insurance company claim about a damaged car or a ruined carpet. No real emotion involved but a remoteness that was intended to get the job done, nothing more. She’d been glad to see them go.

  But now they were leaving she wanted to rush outside and beg them to stay, to give the house a least some semblance of normality. Of warmth.

  She felt sick at the realisation that they were the only human contacts she currently had. Not work, not the gym, not Beth’s pre-school. Not Tiggi.

  What did that say about her life?

  Her face was wet again. She brushed at her cheeks, feeling the sting of salt on her skin. Michael would be cross if he saw her now. He always talked about being strong, about not letting anything get to you, about relying on oneself and pushing away doubt. When she’d first thought about it, it had seemed such a strange thing for a charity worker to say, about never relying on others. But that was so much a part of who he was, who he had been ever since she’d first met him. And over time she had come to understand him and his philosophy, and it now didn’t seem odd.

  She turned and walked through the house, trying to pick up a sense of him, a feeling that at least a part of him was here with her when she needed it. But all she got was Beth and Tiggi, the perfume of one and the child-smell of the other.

  She sat on the double bed in her bedroom, then stood and went through to Beth’s room, anxious and agitated. Sight of the empty bed made her start crying again, and she finally gave in and allowed herself to erupt in sobs, throwing herself down on the duvet cover with a pink princess motif that was her daughter’s favourite; Beth didn’t even like it being taken away to wash, and would stand by the tumble dryer waiting for the cycle to end before snatching it out and rushing upstairs to place it back on her bed, beaming with pleasure as her world was put right again.

  Nancy took a deep breath. Sat up and wiped her face. What if Beth came back right now? What if those two investigators appeared at the front door with her in tow? How would it look if Beth saw her own mother, red-faced and puffy-eyed, standing there?

  She went through to the bathroom and splashed water on her eyes, patting away the droplets with a towel before forcing her breathing to settle. Control. She had to remain in control. Michael would expect nothing less of her.

  Except that Michael wasn’t here, dealing with this problem. She was.

  She caught sight of herself in the mirror. God, she looked like a disaster victim, her hair stringy and wild, her normally clear skin blotchy and red.

  She got changed out of her gym clothes, dumping them in the wash basket even though they were clean. Washing them would take away the association she wanted to avoid: the gym and the note. She put on jeans and a jumper. Back to normal. At least, in part.

  She walked back downstairs and stood in the kitchen, staring at the phone. Why didn’t Michael call? She was accustomed to his silences, to his long absences. It was something she had been forced to accept about him, the side of his life that put duty and others above himself and his family, that allowed him to deliberately distance himself. But right now, at this moment, she needed him to forget about duty and calling and be here for her and Beth—even if only at the end of a line.

  Bloody duty. She suddenly hated the very notion, and felt not a trace of guilt.

  She switched on the television in an effort to fill the living room with noise and colour, to push away the dread thoughts about where Beth might be; what she might be feeling; how she was being treated.

  DO tell your husband. Beth’s life …

  Unable to hold back, the tears began to flow.

  nine

  “Fraser? I heard about her.” Vaslik barely waited to step away from the front door before making the comment Ruth knew was coming.

  “Not my call,” she said neutrally, surprised that office gossip had got to him already. “The bosses must think she’s up to it.”

  He looked doubtful and she couldn’t blame him. It was a harsh judgement but they worked in an environment where a client’s life—and possibly that of a colleague—might depend on a person’s ability to react instinctively. She knew others who had been shot and never fully recovered, their previous edge lost in one stroke. It was a hard truth for any professional to stomach.

  Vaslik shrugged and walked away across the street, where he began scribbling on his clipboard, bending to check out numbers on water meter panels. Ruth did the same on her side, occasionally stopping to go to a front door and knock. There weren’t many takers, each time receiving a smile if she was lucky and an assurance that their water pressure was fine.

  “Just checking,” she told each one. “We’ve had a complaint about a drop in pressure. It could have been a temporary blockage.”

  “If it was her up at thirty seven,” said one woman, pointing to the far end of the street, “you shouldn’t take any notic
e. She’s always bitching about something.”

  Ruth smiled knowingly and thanked her without comment, happy to allow the woman to get the wrong impression. Natural gossip would soon divert attention away from them being seen at the Hardman house.

  “Do you have to frighten people?” she said when she caught up with Vaslik, who had been conducting the same exercise.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Have you seen the film I, Robot?”

  “I don’t watch films. They lack integrity.”

  “Yeah, right. Jungle Book has all the integrity anyone needs. And it’s got singing. You should see I, Robot. You could double for the lead—and I’m not talking about Will Smith. You’re a spit for Sonny. He’s the robot by the way. He scares the crap out of people. Did nobody ever tell you?”

  He shrugged. “People tend not to criticise me.”

  “Exactly. Proves my point.”

  He blinked. “Are you trying to be rude?”

  She leaned towards him. “Don’t try that spooky, third-generation Slavic shit on me, Slik. I don’t know you at all but I know you that much.”

  A flicker of movement touched his mouth. It might have been a smile. “If you say so. Where do we go from here?”

  “I took a look at what she wrote down; there’s nothing useful. It’s stuff we’ve already got or historic details about where they’ve lived, where they’ve been. Nothing rings any bells.”

  “It’s on the husband, then.”

  “Looks like it. First we need a briefing at the office to get all the balls rolling. After that, we find Michael. This day and age, how can anybody be out of touch for longer than ten seconds? Haven’t they heard of sat phones?”

  “We should talk to his employers. I rang the office, too, and got the researchers checking out the phone number for an address.”