The Locker (5 page)

“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 notice. 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.”

“Good. I'll leave it to you to handle that.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Check out at the gym. Whoever left the card in the locker knew her routine, what she did and when. It had to be somebody who could watch her without appearing to. Ergo, inside job.”

“
Ergo
. Latin for ‘therefore.' Tell me, why do the English hold onto other languages so much?”

“Because it makes us sound almost as smart as you Russians.”

“I'm American, I told you.”

“No, you're not. Not really.”

Thirty minutes later they were stepping through a security screen at the company offices in London's Upper Grosvenor Street. The building was a stone's throw from Park Lane and was immaculate and richly decorated, courtesy of a previous tenant who had gone bust. The expensive mouldings, discreet lighting and a quiet air of organised activity was a sharp contrast to the solid, even bland exterior and the uninformative steel plate next to the front step. Even the hum of the electronics which formed the core of the company's world-wide communications network came and went as doors opened and closed and was no different to a hundred other organisations.

Only the controlled intensity of some of the staff hurrying along corridors and the palpable air of tension in the air was an indication that all was not well.

“What's up?” said Ruth, as they made their way down to the Safeguard Incident Room. She nodded at two familiar figures hurrying up the stairs. Both carried heavy nylon
grab-bags
, and were members of Cruxys's international response team. She guessed they were on their way out of the country, probably by jet from Northolt airfield. Both were former special forces and used in extreme situations. She didn't envy them their jobs.

They both pulled up chairs and sat down. In the background, two researchers were pulling together whiteboards ready to construct a time- and storyline, to which they would add from all available information as it came in, including the reports which Ruth and Vaslik were about to make.

“We've lost two contract security guards and two more have gone missing at an oil installation attacked by extremists in Nigeria.” The speaker was Richard Aston, a lanky, skeletal figure in a pinstripe suit and regimental tie. He was Cruxys's Operations Commander. A former Parachute Regiment colonel and one of the
co-founders
of the company, he was responsible for research, staffing and
day-to
-day assignments related to the company's clients. He possessed a mind like a steel trap and hated inaction. Now, it seemed, he might have wished for a surfeit of the latter.

“There's been a lot of internet chatter about bombing threats,” he continued. “Most of it from groups thought to be on shoestring budgets and with little serious capability beyond lurid threats. But we shouldn't ignore it. Something or someone has stirred them up and it could be linked to Boko Haram. If they're involved, it's not good news.”

It certainly wasn't. Boko Haram, as Ruth knew from official briefings and news reports, was an extremist organisation intent on building an Islamic state in northern Nigeria. They had long been suspected of having strong links with other groups in the area, such as Ansaru in Nigeria,
al-Shabaab
in Somalia, and even with al Qaeda. If a smaller, previously
little-known
organisation was suddenly in a position to carry out such attacks, it didn't bode well for the region; other
like-minded
cells might be fired up and join in.

“Are we exposed?” Strictly speaking it was nothing
to do with her, but Aston seemed inclined to want to talk about it.

“Potentially, yes. Everybody is focussed on known al Qaeda affiliates, but there are many more out there with similar intentions. Initially, it's more work for us, but there comes a point where the big corporations will cut their losses and pull out.”

“Initial reactions?” He looked at them in turn. “I know you've only come together for this assignment, but first thoughts will do for now.”

“It looks real enough,” said Ruth. “Nancy Hardman's distraught but hanging on. The husband sounds like a selfish
do-gooder
, off doing his righteous thing and leaving her to bring up the daughter. But until we know more about him, and until we hear what the kidnappers want, we can't judge.”

“Quite right—we can't.”

The voice came from the doorway. They all turned. The new arrival was a slim, almost ascetic looking figure in an immaculate grey suit and white shirt. Martyn Claas was a new board member. He had joined Cruxys from his base in Amsterdam, bringing with him the power and global financial reach of a conglomerate with its headquarters in the US. He had made it clear from the start that he intended to have a
hands-on
involvement with the company's operations and his aim was unambiguous: to make Cruxys Solutions a world leader in the security and risk assessment field, and to increase profitability.

Aston retained a neutral expression. He didn't ask Claas to elaborate, but nodded towards a vacant chair and said, “You all know of each other? Good.” He glanced at Ruth and Vaslik. “Where were we?”

Vaslik took up the baton. “I think the nanny's part of it. Or dead.” He nodded at one of the whiteboards, where Tiggi Sgornik's name had been added to the rapidly growing information on the Hardman family. There were no photos yet but they would come once Ruth downloaded the files from her computer.

“May I ask why?” Claas again.

Vaslik spread his hands on the table surface. “She's the perfect insider. Her belongings have gone from the house, we believe the kidnapper or kidnappers knew how to get in from the back without being seen, and the Hardman woman's missing cell phone battery was found in the nanny's bedroom. She would also be familiar with Hardman's timing at the gym, which seems to have been crucial for her finding the kidnap note.”

“Why do you say dead?” Claas's Dutch accent was noticeable but slight, with a faint American intonation.

“Because in my experience, people like her don't survive long. Insiders are bought or coerced, which means they never really fit in. This makes them weak links. Liabilities. If they can be turned once, they can be turned again. Here or New York, it makes no difference.” He spoke with conviction, his background one of the reasons he had been taken on by Cruxys.

Claas looked faintly doubtful but said nothing. Aston kept his thoughts to himself, experienced enough to know that things rarely if ever turned out quite the way they first seemed.

“What bothers me,” Ruth put in, “is the why and how. Why did Hardman take out a contract with Cruxys? He's a freelance charity worker; you don't get a more unlikely target for kidnapping than that—so the snatch can't have been for ransom.”

Aston nodded. “Agreed. And the how?”

“How could he afford it? We're not exactly cheap and the last time I looked we weren't doing discounts. His wife says they don't have private money, so we're currently trying to find out what makes them a target.”

Claas waved a hand, cutting in on his fellow board member. “Surely, how our clients fund their contracts with us is hardly your concern, Miss Gonzales.” He spoke reasonably but fixed Ruth with a
dead-eyed
stare that challenged any argument. “As long as they pay, that is all we need to know, don't you think?”

Ruth ignored the look; she was accustomed to having her say and throwing questions into the air like this was a way of getting the thinking process going. All the same, she was puzzled by his apparent opposition. Was profit his sole motive here?

“It's of concern,” she said, “if it has some bearing on the kidnap of his daughter. And that's our main consideration at the moment, surely.” At his blank expression and the faint flush that came to his cheeks, she added quickly, “I should explain: if he's got dirty money we could be looking at a nest of trouble. And Slik and I could be right in the middle of it. As could Gina Fraser—again.”

“Fraser is fine,” Claas responded. “I reviewed her file when I arrived here. What happened to her was unforeseeable, and I approved her return to duties. Do you have a problem with that?” The challenge was more obvious this time, his stare unyielding, and Ruth realised she was facing a boardroom bully who didn't like giving way.

She kept her reply calm but firm. “Actually, she's not fully recovered—everybody knows that. What concerns me is that if there's a problem she could be vulnerable.” As might the rest of us, she wanted to add, but didn't. If Claas didn't understand that, telling him here and now wasn't going to make him any friendlier towards her.

There was a lengthy silence, and she wondered if she'd overstepped the mark. But Aston intervened by flicking open a folder in front of him. “I asked for a payments summary of the Hardman file. He opened the contract and paid for three years up front, with future premiums to be paid by direct debit through a London bank. All pretty standard stuff.”

“So nothing unusual, then,” said Claas. He was staring at Ruth like a dog studying a bone he desperately wanted to bite.

“Indeed. Beyond that we don't know where his money comes from.” He looked at Ruth. “You might want to check with accounts for a copy of the original contract, see if there's anything in the margins.” He was referring to jotting and notations sometimes made by clients when signing up, including phone numbers, bank accounts, solicitors' details and so on. He glanced at Claas, who seemed about to interrupt, and continued firmly, “He also lodged separate funds with us to cover any contingencies, as we ask all our clients to do.”

Contingencies. It was Cruxys terminology for the main party of the contract being incapacitated or killed, the lodged funds being sufficient to cover the following year's contract or to be refunded to the contractor's family if not required.

And,
in extremis
, to bury whoever was left.

“We'll have to dig,” he continued. “Unless and until she hears from the kidnappers, all we can do is find him, locate people who know the family. If there's anything relevant in his past, it will be there somewhere.” He took a slip of paper from the folder and passed it to Vaslik. It held a street address in west London. “The address linked to the charity's phone number.”

Vaslik nodded and tucked it away. “I might not have very long to do this.”

Claas looked at him. “Please explain?”

“The snatch occurred just over six hours ago.
Abductions-for
-ransom mostly follow a pattern, from the taking of a valued asset followed by the first contact and demand, to negotiation.”