The Locker (12 page)

twenty-one

As they stepped back
inside the Hardman house, Ruth's phone rang.

It was Richard Aston.

“I pulled in a couple of favours and had the management run a check on the CCTV at the leisure centre,” he said. “We were lucky: it's kept on a secure system so nobody but the centre manager gets to handle it. I'm sending you a link to download the relevant footage. I think you'll find it interesting. The manager's name is Robert Curlow. If he plays up, tell him Godfrey Leander sent you.”

“I'll do that,” said Ruth. “Thank you.”

“No problem. There's something else we need to discuss first: the bank account in Kensington. I've got Margie here with me. If you turn on your laptop we can talk over the possibilities. I'll wait for you to call.”

Ruth agreed and disconnected, then took her laptop through to the study and switched it on.

“Where's Nancy?” she asked Gina.

“Upstairs in the bath. The doc came while you two were having all the fun. He prescribed some pills. I told her to have a soak before she took them. It might help her relax. He asked me to monitor her intake.”

“Are you OK with that?”

“Sure. I've done it before.” She rolled her eyes. “Some people just need protecting from themselves.”

“Your call. What did he say about her?”

“Not much to me. But I think he's concerned about her mental state. He rattled off some jargon about secondary trauma and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder in the families of kidnap victims. To be honest I wasn't really listening; that's his job to sort out.”

“But he's not going to hospitalise her?” She thought Gina was oddly cool about another person's suffering, and guessed the former protection officer was making subconscious comparisons to her own way of handling the trauma following her shooting.

“I don't think so. I got the impression he won't discount it, but he thinks the best place for her is here. It's familiar and all her daughter's stuff is here. It's all she knows.”

“Makes sense. And she'll want to be here in case the kidnappers get in touch.”

The three of them gathered in the study, Ruth and Vaslik by the laptop, Gina hovering by the door, one eye out in case Nancy finished her bath and came downstairs.

The conference link went through and showed Richard Aston, jacket off and relaxed in the Safeguard room with the researchers' story boards in the background. Margie the accounts supervisor was sitting alongside him, looking less comfortable out of her comfort zone.

“Let's keep this brief,” said Aston. “Following your request, we approached the bank in Kensington for further details on the Hardman account. They declined to provide them.” He glanced at Margie for corroboration.

“As expected,” said Margie. “They're under no legal obligation to do anything unless there's suspected criminal activity. Even then we'd have to get a court order, which could take days.”

“An order we will not get.” Aston's tone was firm, the tone slightly acid. “We've had cause to try this before. Our industry background works against us. Because we're a security and investigative company, they think we're all tied in with News Corp and hacking.”

“What will it prove, anyway—even if we could get it?” Margie asked. She clearly hadn't been fully briefed by Aston on why Ruth needed access to the account details.

“Go ahead, Ruth.” Aston waved a hand at the screen.

“If the account has been closed since he took out the Safeguard contract,” explained Ruth, who was thinking on her feet, “then that's it. We're no further forward. If it's still active, it proves Hardman has a separate account; one he's forgotten to tell his wife about. Through it we might be able to track his movements and maybe find out where he is now.”

Margie looked cynical. “Lots of husbands have separate accounts, in my experience. Doesn't prove anything, though, unless you get to audit his spending. But I don't know how you'd go about that—” She stopped. “Forget I said that.”

“I'm not saying there's anything wrong with having the account,” Ruth said. “But it might lead us to a whole new set of details, addresses, telephone numbers. That would give us something to go at, to try and find this bozo and let him know his daughter's life is in danger.”

“Quite.” Aston sounded doubtful. “I'm not sure his wife would share your view but I see your thinking. However, it doesn't alter the fact that we don't have access, in which case I'm not sure where we go from here.”

Ruth felt frustrated. She could feel this thing slipping away from her. There had to be a way of contacting the elusive and mysterious Michael Hardman, but the twin shadows of bureaucracy and the Data Protection Act were getting in the way.

“I'm bloody certain they'd give up my account details in a heartbeat if a government department asked them,” she muttered. She looked at Vaslik for inspiration, but he shook his head, unable to help.

“Maybe there is a way,” ventured Margie. She was staring above the screen camera, forehead creased in thought. “All you want to do is check that the account's still active, right?”

“Yes,” said Ruth.

“Then what?”

“Then we might have reason to get a court order with Nancy's cooperation as a last resort. It might not work but it's worth a try. Anything's worth a try,” she added heavily.

“Go on,” urged Aston, looking at Margie. He sounded intrigued. “What's your idea and is it legal?”

“Perfectly. I'll have to make a phone call first. You'll have to promise not to laugh, though. There's a routine I have to go through to hook the fish.”

Aston looked puzzled by what she meant, but picked up the phone in the centre of the table and handed it to her. “Do it.”

Margie dialled a number, and seconds later asked to be put through to someone named George. “Hello, handsome,” she trilled, with a sheepish look at Aston. “How's the best looking man in London?” She pressed a button and George's voice floated out into the room, gravelly and assured.

“Hi, beautiful,” he replied. “What do you want and how much will it cost me?”

“Oh, you! It won't cost you a thing, I promise. But it might cost me a drinkie or two later this week, if you're around.” She looked pointedly at Aston, who waved a hand in assent and smiled.

“Go on, then.”

“Well, we need to make a refund to a client account in your Kensington branch, only we think it might be dormant. Is there any way you could … you know, give them a call and ask if it's worth sending the payment or not? I really don't want to go through a lot of hassle if it's dead; I'm on my own here and really, really busy. What do you think?”

“I think maybe I should come round and keep you company.” George's voice was loaded with meaning, and they all witnessed Margie blushing. Even so, it didn't stop her winking at the camera.

“Oh, you,” she said coyly. But the look said it all: fish hooked. She read out the account details.

“All right. Leave it with me, babe. I'll do it now.” His voice dropped. “Stay by the phone, you—”

Margie's hand shot out and hit the mute button, cutting off whatever he was about to say. She replaced the handset and studied her fingernails, while beside her, Aston was having trouble keeping a straight face.

Two minutes later the phone rang and she listened to the call, then thanked him and cut the connection.

“It's live and active,” she announced with a smug air.

“How active, did he say?” asked Vaslik.

“Nothing specific, but it sounded live enough to be recent.”

“Good.” Aston clapped his hands together. “Great work, Margie.” He looked into the camera, a quizzical frown on his face. “Tell me, Ruth, what are you really looking for here?”

Ruth took a deep breath. She'd been afraid he might ask this question. This was bordering on something else altogether, and she was relieved Martyn Claas wasn't part of the conversation; as little as she knew of him, she was certain he would have closed it down by now. “If this works,” she said slowly, “this payment might not be the only one made from that account. We can start digging further.”

Aston said nothing, and she realised from his expression that it was deliberate. He'd doubtless been at the forefront of similar lines of investigation before, and was probably working out the ramifications for the company if things went too far. His silence meant that for now he was willing to let Ruth run with it.

“We have to do something,” she said at last, aware that all eyes were on her. She lowered her voice. “So much about this makes no sense. An apparent child abduction seemingly focussed on the father—who's out in the wind and untraceable; his only legal footprint is a single bank account his wife is unaware of; a charity office that doesn't exist … and now a team of followers who might or might not be part of the kidnap team.”

A thought flickered into her head about the CIA man following George Paperas, but she dismissed it. Paperas might have trodden on some toes in the past, or with his field work and UN contacts, he might have information the CIA considered useful in the war on terror. Unless it was proven otherwise, that was his business and no part of what they were here to discuss.

twenty-two

After Aston signed off,
Ruth checked her email and found the link from him with the CCTV footage from Fitness Plus. She clicked on it and waited while it downloaded.

The picture was grainy with a
blue-ish
tinge, but clear enough to make out details of faces and furnishings. It showed the main corridor leading from the corner near reception past the bank of lockers and vending machines. No doubt another camera showed the opposite end of the corridor leading to the pool, but that wasn't necessary right now.

A timer in the bottom
right-hand
corner showed a date, and the time at 09.05. About ten minutes before Nancy arrived, if the kidnap note was accurate. It was cutting it fine but she guessed Aston had vetted the footage first and sent her what was relevant.

Two women in gym gear walked by and went through the door into the fitness studio. The silence was slightly unnerving, Ruth thought, after the pounding beat of the music she knew was being played throughout the building. They were shortly followed by the young hunk Ruth had seen chatting to the receptionist. But instead of entering the studio he walked to the end of the corridor, checked a fire door then came back, bending to check out the slots in the vending machines before moving on to the lockers, where he ran his hand along the doors, pushing them shut. He seemed in no hurry to be busy.

When he stopped alongside the first bank of lockers and flicked a hand at the key in the middle, Ruth tensed.

“What's he doing?” asked Gina.

“That's the locker Nancy uses, where the note was left. It's got a large safety pin instead of an orange key fob.”

The hunk opened the door and appeared to be checking the coin mechanism box on the inside. Then he closed it again and walked away, flexing his arms.

“Did you see anything?” Ruth murmured, and looked at the other two. “I didn't.”

Vaslik shook his head. “If he dropped the card, he should be in Vegas—they'd pay top dollar for that kind of skill.”

Two more customers came in separately; one an elderly man with a stick, the other a young woman wearing a hoodie and carrying a sports bag. She stopped halfway along the bank of lockers and opened one, then changed her mind and moved back towards the first row.

She opened the door to the middle one and pushed her bag inside using both hands. As she did so, they saw one hand was holding a flash of something white against the dark fabric.

Gina leaned in to look closer. “What's that?”

“Bingo,” Ruth muttered. “It's the card. Now, who the hell are you, lady?”

The woman didn't lock the door, but turned as if to go into the studio, then appeared to change her mind before going back to the locker and pulling out her bag, this time
one-handed
. As she turned to leave, her hoodie fell back slightly, revealing one side of her face.

It was the woman Ruth knew as Clarisse.

As she walked out of shot towards the reception area, the three investigators looked at each other.

“She gets around,” said Vaslik. “Can you freeze and copy a frame of that?”

Ruth was already reaching for the laptop's mouse pad. “I'm on it.” She did so, then allowed the footage to run.

What was left was dynamite.

They saw Nancy enter the frame and go to the locker. She opened the door and stopped; went very still for a moment before reaching inside. When she withdrew her hand, she was holding the square of white card.

The shock was plain to see in the stiffness of her body and face.

Seconds later, she was running out of the frame, her sports bag forgotten on the floor. Moments after, the mystery woman appeared and looked inside the locker, then flicked the door closed and looked down at Nancy's bag for a second before looking along the corridor without moving.

She was smiling.

“What's she doing? Gina asked. “Why is she standing there?”

“She's waiting,” said Vaslik, “to see if this fish took the bait.”

Five minutes later they joined Nancy in the living room, where she was watching the BBC News Channel. A reporter in a hard hat and body armour was standing in front of a burning building in Mogadishu, Somalia's capital. In the background people were clawing at piles of rubble while emergency crews struggled to get victims into vehicles and away from the scene. Evidence of a bomb outrage, the reporter was saying, by a little-known extremist group that had, until now, been mostly vocal with attempting only limited attempts at disrupting everyday life in the capital.

Ruth turned off the television and showed Nancy the
freeze-frame
of the woman as she turned away from the locker.

“Do you know her?” she asked gently, hardly daring to breathe. She didn't want to
pre-empt
Nancy's answer in any way. This was the first break they'd had, and if it led anywhere they'd struck very lucky indeed. Sometimes that was all it needed: one moment of carelessness. Maybe this was such a case and would be the undoing of all the care Clarisse had taken not to be seen.

Nancy studied it, eyes flooding with recognition.

“Yes, I do—at least, to say hello to. Her name's Karen, or Helen—I forget which. Helen, I think. Sorry, but I'm terrible with some names. Why have you got this photo? What's going on?”

“How long have you known her?”

“A week, ten days … maybe a bit longer. She joined recently. We've hardly talked, really. She was there just after I found the card. She must have thought I was so rude—I ran off without stopping to talk.”

“I wouldn't worry,” Ruth commented. “I think she'll understand better than most. What do you think, Slik?”

When Vaslik nodded with a grim smile, Nancy looked at them both and asked, “What do you mean? Do you know her?”

“Not as well as we'd like to. We acquired footage of the CCTV taken just before you arrived at Fitness Plus yesterday morning. This is a
freeze-frame
taken just after she'd placed the card in your locker.”

“What? But that's—” Nancy looked horrified. “
She
put it there?” Her voice was tiny, like a child's, and a pulse was beating at the side of her head.

“Yes. Your gym buddy, Helen. She also calls herself Clarisse and claims to live at
No. 38
. She doesn't, of course, but she—or somebody else—has definitely been there.”

“Doing what?”

“Watching this house. Watching you. Sometimes from the ground floor window, sometimes upstairs.”

“
What
?”

They waited while Nancy went through the stages of feeling angry, violated, resentful and frightened, offering reassurance. The last emotion was likely to be the most immediately worrying, but that was Gina's problem.
Hand-holding
was what she was trained for. The rest would, in time, diminish.

“It's OK,” said Ruth. “She's gone now. We'll try and find her, don't worry.” Find her, she thought, and lean on her with a big stick.