The Locker (3 page)

“No. I told you, he's a charity worker.” The response was automatically defensive but Ruth ignored it. Defensive was expected; it helped let out the tension like a steam release valve.

“Yes, I remember.”

Vaslik came back in the room, hovered for a moment, then went out again. Ruth ignored him. The man was like a wraith. She hadn't known him long enough to judge what made him tick, and what little about himself that he'd let out had been fairly monosyllabic. He hadn't liked her calling him Slik but she didn't care. As far as she was concerned he could call her whatever he liked in return, as long as they communicated and got the job done.

Ruth's path to the private sector had not been widely different. She had served in the Ministry of Defence police before transferring for five years to the Met, then leaving to join Cruxys when they had shown an interest. They needed more women investigators, they had told her during the interview; especially with MOD and police experience. And firearms training. She had confirmed yes, yes and yes, a flutter of reluctant excitement in the pit of her stomach at the mention of guns. The offer had landed on the table seconds later.

Nancy nodded after Vaslik's departing back. “Does he ever speak?”

“Not much. He's American—his family's Russian.
Ex-cop
. I call him Slik because it's easier to remember.”

“He moves like a ballet dancer.”

“You think?” Ruth pretended to consider the idea as new, another move to build rapport. “You're right. Maybe he's an escapee from the Bolshoi. I should ask him. Not that I care. He knows what he's doing, that's all I need to know.”

four

A cursory tour of
the house was sufficient to tell Andy Vaslik that nothing had been left behind. A pity, but not unexpected. Not every crime scene dripped with clues like a television drama. Some were almost clinical in their absence of evidence, with no more signs than were left by a passing breeze.

He'd seen it many times before.

As a member of a specialist police unit in New York, he'd been to more scenes of crime—especially kidnappings—than he cared to remember. Many of the houses and apartments had been trashed by ignorant and
drugs-fuelled
invaders looking for an easy score. In his experience, while these criminals—mostly from eastern European or Latin American gangs—were overly ambitious in scale and reach, they were rarely the hottest cards in the deck. They never imagined getting caught, so did little to bother hiding their tracks.

Which was both good and bad.

Good meant they usually got caught. Bad meant they didn't really care.

It was a measure of how they saw the miserable trajectory of their lives and most did nothing to break the pattern. They'd go in hard and brutal, prepared to kill regardless of consequences because to do it any other way simply never occurred to them. If the authorities were lucky, the perpetrators left enough forensic matter and sometimes personal crap that linked them as tight to a crime as a full reel of
studio-quality
photographic evidence.

This, though, was different.

No clues, no crap, no handy little personal belongings dropped in their haste. Whoever had snatched the little girl had come in clean and left the same way. In, lifted and out again, no damage, no fuss.

Unless they had performed the lift on the outside and the house left open was to confuse the investigation. It wasn't uncommon and the
pick-up
wouldn't have needed much; a van or large car stopping on a quiet street, the driver smiling to ask directions of an unsuspecting woman and child.

Then wham—all gone.

Professional.

There was always the other possibility: that the woman, Tiggi whatever her name was, had not been so unsuspecting; had in fact been complicit in the abduction.

He sniffed at the pillow on her bed, picking up a trace of perfume to get a feel for her. It wasn't a sexual thing; he was simply rolling through a database of smells and matching them to other women he had
come across in years of criminal investigations. Sometimes the perfume a woman wore told you a whole lot more about her character and the people she mixed with than any other details.

This one told him cheap but with some taste. A boyfriend, undoubtedly, but not
over-generous
or rich.

Her room had been cleared. There should have been something left behind: underwear, wash gear, a change of clothes, lipstick,
face-wipes
—even something accidental like a bus ticket or a shop receipt. But the place had been sanitised, as devoid of character as a motel room.

Strike one against the nanny.

He moved into the main bedroom. Although shared by a man it was mostly a woman's space, personal, soft and colourful with cushions and the light touches no man would ever consider. Well, most men. He'd known a cop in New York with ambitions as an interior designer whose apartment was like a repro of the Ziegfeld Follies. But he'd been a
one-off
.

He listened to make sure the Hardman woman wasn't going to come up after him, but all he could hear was Ruth's voice, probing for information and clues. He hadn't got the measure of her yet, only that she didn't seem too keen to have been selected to show him around. Maybe it was the result of a previous pairing. There were partners he'd be pleased never to see again; it was always a danger in their line of work, being in close proximity to an opposite for several hours a day or night. Most of the time you got on and did the job because that's what you had to do. Sometimes, though, it was easier to hope for a transfer out.

He moved around the room, checking the dressing table, bedside cabinets and wardrobe, quickly flicking aside the corners of the carpets. He wasn't sure why he did this here, only that in the past it had yielded results out of proportion to expectations. Some had revealed letters, recreational drugs, bank documents, even large amounts of cash where there should have been none.

He'd even found a body once. That had been something none of them had expected—least of all the householder who'd claimed his wife had been kidnapped.

The fact was, everybody lied about something. Some were light and white, concealing embarrassment or personal failings; some carried darker lies in the way of stored secrets they preferred to hide close by where they could touch them or take them out occasionally to pore over them in the dark hours.

This room didn't tell much of a story and yielded no useful clues. The man had little in the way of clothing, most of it casual and functional in muted colours of green and brown. Perhaps he was a closet camouflage nut. In fact there was so little, he probably carried more with him than was left behind.

The woman had more, but much of it was not new although of good quality. Not a shoe freak, which was refreshing, but she seemed to favour lacy underwear. He wondered if she kept it for the husband's rare visits home or if she had a friend with benefits on the side.

Not relevant? Maybe.

There was a phone extension by the bed. He unplugged it as he passed by and took it with him. From here on in they would control all calls in and out. He'd deal with the inevitable
fall-out
later. Some people were OK with it, others saw it as an infringement of their personal liberty, apparently oblivious of the fact that having a relative snatched was pretty much the biggest infringement you could get.

The little girl's room was a wreck—but the wreckage of all little girls who haven't got someone clearing up after them. Toys, fluffy and plastic, games, picture books, posters and clothing, scattered indiscriminately yet possessing an order he recognised. Ask this child where anything was, and she'd know instantly. Take something away and she'd probably scream the place down until it got put back.

The teddy on the mat downstairs told its own story.

He lingered over the open drawers but didn't touch. They told their own story. Someone had selected a change of clothes—maybe more than one—for the little girl.

Strike two against the nanny.

He used a chair on the landing to flip the roof hatch and check inside the loft space. It was small and cramped, the roof pitch angled down sharply, with no boards across the joists. It left little room to do much more than store a few lightweight items. It, in this case, a single empty suitcase sitting on a thin layer of insulating material that tickled his nose when disturbed, and some faded Christmas decorations in a cardboard box which he guessed had been left by a previous resident.

He closed the trapdoor and replaced the chair, then went back downstairs and joined the women. When Ruth looked up he gave a minute shake of his head.

Then he headed for the other rooms.

The study felt underused, cool and dark. It reminded him of his parents' front room, kept for best and cold as a morgue; the last place anyone would choose to sit in comfort. This one held a desk and a filing cabinet, two armchairs and a small sideboard which was empty.

He flicked through the drop files in the cabinet, walking his fingers across the title cards for insurance, banking, car details, legal and a host of other tags that make up the average family life story. No surprises except that all the correspondence was in the wife's name, as were the bank account and credit cards.

Now there was a thing.

There was nothing for or about the husband.

five

Vaslik went and stood
by the front door, eyeing the street but being careful to remain out of sight. Previous experience had taught him that kidnappers weren't always far from the victim's family in the first few hours. The pros usually wanted to keep an eyes-on to the situation to monitor any police response and gauge the right time to make their initial contact. If they were in a hurry, the demand would be made fairly early on. If not, they would bide their time and ratchet up the tension for those left behind.

The bad ones were more difficult to assess. By their nature, they were unpredictable, usually less controlled and far more likely to panic at the first signs of trouble. They were also prone to impatience, and not waiting long before going for the prize … or cutting their losses.

And that was never good news for the hostage.

He walked through to the back door and down the rear, where a gate opened into a narrow service lane. It was lined each side with hedge growth, and not overlooked. A blank spot and easy meat for anyone with evil intentions.

A bad sign.

He stood for a moment, his antennae twitching. Was this the kind of thing he was supposed to be looking for? But how could it be? It didn't involve any threat to the US.

Although no longer in Homeland Security, like many former employees he was on a reserve list which carried certain obligations. One of those was the expectation that he would be ready to assist in helping protect his country's security in any way he could. Shortly after arriving in London, he'd received a call from a
middle-ranking
member of DHS gently reminding him of his duty and asking that he be on hand to assist if required.

“We appreciate that you're now in the private sector,” the woman had said carefully. “But we may need your help on the ground. You have experience that's valuable to us.”

“Sure,” he'd agreed. “How can I help?”

“I'm afraid I can't comment in detail, only that it might involve the abduction of an important American citizen. I've merely been asked to contact you so that you know the situation and can be prepared. This is not unusual and many other former special agents receive requests like this when we feel it's necessary. I'm sure you're aware of the heightened state of alertness we're all under at this present time.”

She had rung off without going into further detail.

Vaslik had put it out of his mind, hoping it wouldn't come to anything. He'd known plenty of reserve list officers who had never heard a word until they hit retirement age or beyond, when their service ended with a polite letter of gratitude from whichever government department had been keeping them on a string. End of duty. Sorry we never called. You're off the hook. Goodbye and have a quiet life.

He dismissed it from his mind; Beth Hardman was neither American nor important, except to her family.

He stepped out into the service lane and walked to the end. He turned right, then right again until he was back in the road leading past the Hardmans' front door. He could see the Toyota further down, and walked towards it, his cell phone clamped to one ear and juggling a notebook in his other hand. He was looking for something intangible; it could be a vehicle parked nearby with someone on board; it might be a building that had a feel about it. He wouldn't know until he saw it.

The cars were all empty and the houses normal and devoid of suspicious signs. By now most people who were going out had gone, so most of the houses had that empty look that burglars search for, coupled in a way that won't attract the attention of neighbours. He saw nothing that stood out; just people going about their business, washing windows, taking in shopping or doing the mundane
have-to
-do things people attend to every day.

A little way up the street on the opposite side from the Hardman house Vaslik spotted a man with a camera. He was taking shots of a property from various angles, sinking to one knee then checking the screen for the results before trying again. Real estate agent, Vaslik guessed. The man moved back and snapped a few more photos before walking down the side of the house and disappearing.

The house looked empty and sad and Vaslik didn't envy him his job. It would be a tough sell.

When he returned to the house through the rear gate and stepped into the living room, Ruth was standing by a shelf where an electronic frame showed a series of photos flicking past in sequence. Family shots, clearly; some grouped, some single, smiling faces against a variety of backgrounds, in living colour. Happy times. Nancy, a small girl and a man, although his face never quite spoke to the camera.

“Is that your husband?” she queried, pointing at one shot. The man was slim and tanned, with a fading smile as if he had just been dropping a pose a shade too early. Or was turning away.

“Michael, yes.” She gave a ghost of a smile. “He hates having his photo taken. His parents were always shoving a camera in his face and he says it put him off for life.”

“It would be good to have some shots of him and Beth. If you don't have any handy I could take the disc out of there and have some printed.” She opened her briefcase and took out a slim notebook computer. “I wouldn't have to take it away—I can download what we need right here.”

Nancy frowned. “Why do you need a photo of Michael?”

“It helps,” Ruth explained, “especially if we need to circulate pictures of Beth. Photos jog memories and a family group carries more weight than a single shot. Makes it more urgent, more real. People are prepared to make more effort with a family shot because they can relate to it.”

Nancy nodded. “I see. Of course. Help yourself.”

Ruth took the frame down and extracted the disc from the back. It was the size of a postage stamp. She opened her computer and took a card reader from her briefcase, sliding the disc into the smallest slot and plugging the reader into one of the USB ports.

“What's that?” Nancy looked worried. “You won't lose them, will you?”

“No, this opens the files so I can see which one to copy. I won't be a second.” She glanced past the woman's shoulder at Vaslik and gave a minute tilt of her head.

He got the message.

“Is he secretive, your husband?” It was the first time he had spoken in the house. He had a pleasant accent without the throatiness of many American men.

“I don't think so. No more than most. Why?” She looked down at the extension phone in his hand, the wire coiled around it. “That's from my bedroom. What are you doing with it?”

He dropped it on the settee. “We don't want you taking calls while you're alone.”

“You can't do that!” She snatched up the phone and clutched it to her. “You have no right.”

Ruth moved across and sat next to her, and gently but firmly took the phone from her. “It's OK, Nancy. He's right, I'm afraid; that's what we're here for. You can take any calls that come in, but if it's the people who took Beth, we have to be here to advise you.” She placed the phone to one side. “We're used to this kind of thing. Where is your cell phone?”

“You can't take that, too.”

“We're not going to. But you should leave it down here whenever you go to bed.” She had no way of explaining how traumatic it would be waking up suddenly in the middle of the night to a call from her daughter's kidnappers.

Nancy relented. “It's in the kitchen.”

Ruth nodded at Vaslik, who stepped through the door and retrieved it, placing it on the arm of the settee. He stepped towards the window, drawing Nancy's attention away from what Ruth was doing. “Your daughter must miss him, being away so much.”

“Yes, she does.” She shivered and moved towards him, glancing back at Ruth. “In fact there are times when I think she can't really remember him. She's so young.” A tear erupted and trickled down her cheek. She brushed it away and looked down at her feet. “I hate it when he's away.”

“Do you trust him?”

She looked at him. “What do you mean?”

“Slik.” A soft warning from Ruth, crouched over her machine.

“Could he be having an affair with your nanny?”

Nancy's reaction was instinctive; her arm swung up and round, the slap echoing sharply in the room. Vaslik barely moved, turning enough to take the sting out of the blow as if he were used to being hit. His only response was a hint of a smile.

Nancy went to hit him again but Ruth stood up quickly and clamped her arms close to her side.

“You do that again,” she said softly, “and we're out of here.” She threw Vaslik a furious look, and he shrugged and walked away.

“I'm sorry.” Nancy's voice was dull and flat as if all the tone had drained out through her feet. “He shouldn't have said that.”

“I know. What can I say? He was being a dick. Sit down—I'll be right back.”