The Locker (13 page)

twenty-three

George Paperas called towards
midday. Ruth took the call in the study, in case the conversation included something Nancy didn't need to know.

“Interesting person, your Michael Hardman,” he began.

“You've found him?” She couldn't help it, she felt a tingle of electricity pass through her. But it didn't last.

“No. Nothing like that. In fact, that's the odd thing: he's actually proving very difficult to pin down. I rang a dozen names on that list of agencies you gave me. Fortunately, most of them were people I know. It seemed the quickest way to get some feel for him.”

“What did you find?”

“In a way, more than I expected … and a lot less. Hardman's got something of a name for himself; he's a bit of a butterfly, is the general view. He first popped up as a field volunteer with Oxfam about four years ago, in Pakistan. He showed up one day at a transit camp near Peshawar and offered to pitch in. They were under pressure and grateful for any extra hands they could get. He quickly became a valued member of the team and even drove supply trucks close to the border when the local contract drivers got scared off by threats from the Taliban. Then a couple of weeks later, he disappeared, saying he had family stuff to resolve.”

“Could be true,” Ruth murmured. “His daughter's very young.”

“Well, he never said anything about that. It was the same with five other agencies I spoke to. They're mostly small and don't have the resources to turn away offers of help, so when he turned up they took him on with open arms. But it was
one-sided
.”

“How do you mean?”

“He'd be there as promised, work for a few days, maybe a week or two, then fade into the background. Not all the names ticked on the list had heard of him—and I know at least three of them who have excellent record keeping. For a committed aid worker, he doesn't seem to have left much of a footprint.”

“Did anybody know anything about him?”

“That's the problem: nothing. He never volunteered information about his background or family, even in
down-time
, which is rare. Work in tough circumstances like field aid, and you talk about anything to take your mind off what you've seen, if only for a few hours. He didn't do that; didn't indulge in gossip and appeared to have no political leanings. Most aid workers are pretty open about where they're from; it's
camp-fire
stuff. Engaging with others is part of the job description if you're serious about it. But your Mr. Hardman doesn't appear to have been the type.”

“Was he paid by them?”

“No. That was the thing they liked. He didn't ask for anything, so most of them figured he had private money and a conscience. He wouldn't be the first.”

“What did they think of him?”

“Pleasant enough, organised and
hard-working
for the time they knew him … but not somebody they'd welcome back. Each time he left, he created a gap in the workforce that often couldn't be filled quickly enough. It happens, of course, when workers fall ill or suffer an injury of some kind; then they have to be evacuated out if it's serious enough and a replacement found. But this was different. He simply left with little or no notice.”

Ruth felt a pulse beating in her throat. “And no ideas about where he'd gone?” She wasn't sure why that was important, but it was something she felt she had to ask.

“None. He simply left and disappeared.”

She thanked him for his help and cut the connection, then went in search of Slik.

“He said he had something to do,” said Gina, who was leaning against the kitchen sink working her way through a bacon sandwich. She pushed a plateful towards Ruth. “Here, get one of these down you. You look like you're thinking too much.”

“Thanks.” Ruth was hungry and took a bite, wondering where Slik had gone and why she had a bad feeling about Michael Hardman.

twenty-four

Andy Vaslik stepped inside
the rear of No. 38 and closed the French doors behind him.
He stood quite still, listening for the slightest sound, the smallest shuffle of movement in the atmosphere that would signal the presence of another.
He'd checked the outside of the building first, and only when he felt fairly sure nobody was in, he'd made his way down the side path and gained access the same way as before.

He waited, tuning in. This time he wanted to get a feel for the place. Last time had been quick and dirty, snatching a clutch of fleeting observations before anyone came back and found them. Now he was certain the place had been abandoned as an observation post, he wanted to take a closer look.

He started upstairs, going through every room, sniffing the air, absorbing the sense of the building, looking behind doors. Then he checked every inch of the carpets and fixtures. He was looking for any minute traces that might show who had been here, and what they had done. Every visitor leaves something, unless clothed in a forensics suit, and he was guessing the woman calling herself Clarisse would have been no different. She would have kept movement in the house to a minimum to avoid alerting the neighbours, but she would have been unable to remain totally still for hours at a time.

And when people move, they sometimes leave things behind.

He didn't want to jump the gun and call in Cruxys's own experts; instead he had confidence in his own abilities to tell him what he needed to know.

The two rear bedrooms gave him nothing. If Clarisse had been in here, she'd been careful to leave no obvious trace. Facing away from the focus of her attention—the Hardman House—would have been pointless and
time-wasting
, and he had a feeling Clarisse was too professional for that.

He checked the front rooms, giving a clear view each way along the road. This was where he figured Clarisse or her colleagues—and he was fairly sure there would have been others—would have spent most of their time. It gave a commanding view of their target, while avoiding the likelihood of anybody looking up from the road. People don't always look up at houses, but centre their attention on the ground floor where they expect to see movement. From here, the watchers could observe the Hardman's house in relative safety, while keeping an eye on the comings and goings of neighbours and alert to the possibility of random callers to this house itself.

He scoured the carpets, eyeing the flattened area he'd seen before, but finding nothing. He wasn't surprised; the empty room would have shown at a glance if they had left anything behind.

What he did see was three rounded indentations in the carpet. They had used a stool of some kind. He was willing to bet it was a folding camp stool, easy to conceal and carry, and putting the watcher at a comfortable level to see through the window with minimum exposure.

It pointed to expertise and planning; amateurs wouldn't think of comfort, and they would have left more in the way of traces.

He checked the bathroom again, noting the unflushed bowl, and stooped to look behind the seat, peering into the corners. Nothing.

The rest of the house was the same, devoid of debris, the way professionals leave a place because they know what the risks can be if they get careless.

He let himself out the back and walked down the side of the house, pausing to check the wheelie bins. You just never knew. But they were empty. As he passed through the side gate, he saw the neighbour's bin on the other side of the low fence, less than a foot away. On impulse, he made sure he wasn't being watched, then leaned over and took a look.

And smiled.

It was full with
pre-filled
white bin liners, knotted in the kind of neat,
eco-friendly
, responsible way people liked to live. But down the side was something that didn't match: it was a small paper carrier bag with a garish logo, the twin handles tied roughly together—the way people did after a picnic with their food waste and wrappers, when they were going to flip it into a garbage can on their way home.

He plucked it out and walked away, keen to see if his trash raid had been worthwhile.

Ruth was waiting for him by the back gate. She had a good idea where he'd been and eyed the bag in his hand. “Is that loot or did you stop for lunch on the way?”

He explained where he'd been and held up the bag he'd liberated, but refused to say anything until they were back in the kitchen. He spread an old newspaper on the working surface, then carefully tipped out the bag's contents and used a fork from the drawer to sort through the scraps.

It yielded the remnants of a working meal for one to go: a litter of orange peel, a paper coffee mug with a smear of dried foam around the rim, a plastic spoon, a
scrunched-up
paper napkin and an empty yogurt pot. A healthy eater, evidently.

They stood and stared at the evidence for what it was, each running the possibilities through their mind. This was either the neighbour's last lunch wrappings, casually tossed in the wheelie bin as they got home, or something else entirely.

“What do you think?” said Ruth.

Vaslik shook his head. “I don't think anything. It's nothing, is what it is.” He excused himself and went to the bathroom, squeezing by in front of her. When she looked back at the debris on the work surface, something about it was different.

The paper napkin was gone.

She wondered why Vaslik had removed it, and was about to follow him to ask, when a shout echoed from upstairs. It was Gina.

“Ruth! Andy! Get an ambulance!”

twenty-five

The ambulance was at
the house within eight minutes and the paramedics were wheeling Nancy out five minutes later, face covered in an oxygen mask. She looked sickly white, her hair plastered wetly against her skin from where Gina had dragged her out of the bath and deposited her on the bathroom floor to administer resuscitation.

“I heard a bump from the bathroom,” Gina explained. “I went to check on her and she was under the water, staring up at the ceiling.”

“You think she slipped?” asked Ruth. They were walking towards her car, ready to follow the ambulance as it pulled away from the kerb, lights flashing.

“Probably. I mean, it's the only explanation, isn't it?”

“Why do we all need to go?” Vaslik spoke from the back seat as they buckled up and Ruth took off after the emergency vehicle, referring to her insistence that they all follow close behind.

“She's going to an A&E unit. I didn't have time to get a private clinic sorted. We can do that once she's been assessed and treated. Until then we watch her closely.”

“You think they'll try something there?”

“Maybe. She'll be wide open until we get her somewhere secure. If she's there any length of time, we'll need to operate a rota system to keep an eye on her.” She looked at Gina. “You OK with that?”

“Suits me. If it's like most A&E departments, we'll have our work cut out.” She flicked aside her jacket and produced a small
semi-automatic
pistol and checked the magazine. It fitted neatly into her hand without the bulk of a normal handgun, and she seemed quite at ease with the feel of the weapon.

“What the hell is that?” Vaslik queried. “A toy?”

“It's a Glock
Twenty-Six
.” Ruth answered for her. “I didn't know the Met used them.”

“They don't.” Gina slipped the gun back into a polymer holster at her side. “It's a private thing. You really think the kidnappers might make a go for her?”

Ruth shrugged. “On what we've seen so far, I wouldn't bet against it. That business near the supermarket was too organised for merely keeping an eye on her; they were ready to pick her up. And Clarisse happening along was part of it. They knew Nancy had gone out and were scouting the terrain.”

Nobody argued. There was no point.

The game was closing in.

twenty-six

While Ruth parked the
car and called in a progress report to Aston, Gina and Vaslik made their way inside. She caught up with them at the emergency reception, where they were directed to a small waiting area close to where Nancy was being assessed. A nurse came and spoke briefly to Gina to ask how long Nancy had been underwater and what medications she was on, then disappeared after telling them that they would be kept informed.

Ruth called Aston again and asked for their consultant to be informed, so that he could find out what was going on.

“This is going to blow their minds,” she told the others. “It's way too public for the board's liking.” Unlike some crisis management companies, the Cruxys board of directors had always operated in the background, avoiding publicity and shunning any kind of limelight. The motivation was simple: if their staff and operatives became public material, they could no longer guarantee being able to work in secret. And for most of their clients, that would make them a danger, as known faces drew the media like moths to a flame.

When the consultant bustled in, resplendent in a grey suit and pocket handkerchief, he spoke briefly to Gina before disappearing in search of an authority figure he could bully. He returned a few minutes later with good news.

“She's responding to treatment,” he assured them. “She has bruising to the back of her head where she hit the bath, but no obvious signs of concussion. She remembers feeling dizzy and was probably overcome by running the bath too hot.”

“So she'll be all right?” Ruth pressed him. “Can we take her home?”

The look he gave her was larded with irritation. He lowered his voice as a nurse hurried by. “Miss Gonzales, I do have an idea of what Mrs. Hardman is going through. She's under immense stress and the continued pressure of not knowing what has happened to her daughter is weighing heavily on her mind. I gather there was some kind of incident earlier today—she mentioned something about a woman caller and a man following her in the street. She felt threatened. Is it true?”

“Yes, we think so.” Ruth swore silently. In spite of her fragile condition, Nancy must have picked up on the possible snatch team near the supermarket and blabbed to the consultant. Coupled with the mysterious Clarisse turning up, it was no wonder she was freaking out. She wondered how many others had heard. “You know we can't talk about it,” she said firmly. The doctor might be on a retainer with Cruxys, but that didn't mean he could be party to everything that was going on. “There are things happening in her life, yes; but she's also seeing shadows where there are none. We all are,” she added for good measure.

He appeared somewhat mollified. “Very well. I'll take your word for it. I've asked for her to be kept in overnight so that more tests can be carried out in the morning. All being well, you can take her home then. But only if they pass her as fit enough.”

“Can we see her?” asked Gina. When he looked doubtful, she added, “It might make her feel safer if she saw us all here.”

His mouth gave a curl. “Of course. But only for a few minutes—and I suggest you don't allow the staff to know what's going on. These places are notoriously leaky with information; if there's a sniff of what she's going through the press and police will be around here in droves.”

After speaking briefly to a drowsy Nancy and assuring her that she was safe and that they were watching over her, Ruth and Vaslik left Gina on watch and returned to the house to get her some fresh clothing for the morning. The journey gave Ruth a chance to ask Vaslik a question.

“Why are you armed, Slik? Bit early in the assignment, isn't it?”

“It's a habit I find tough to break,” he answered briefly. “Aren't you?”

“No. Believe it or not, we don't all carry guns and nor are we routinely allowed to.”

“But you could if you wanted.”

“I suppose so. But we'd be on our own if we got caught.” She looked at him. “They did explain that to you, didn't they—that the gun laws here are a tiny bit tougher than in the US?”

“Sure, they told me. I'll keep it under wraps, I promise.”

“Good. Because if you shoot anybody, I won't be able to protect you—and nor will Cruxys.” She was tempted to enquire where he'd got the weapon but knew she'd probably receive the same vague answer Gina had given.

She pulled onto the kerb in front of the house and killed the engine. She wanted to ask about the missing napkin, but decided against it. Now was not the time. Instead, she stepped out of the car and led the way across the drive and opened the front door.

Once inside, they both froze.

Something was different.

Vaslik pushed past Ruth, drawing his gun and listening. He motioned for her to check the living room while he did the same upstairs. This was the most hazardous task in house clearance, as Ruth knew. Going up open stairs towards a potential threat left the upper body wide open and vulnerable; you had to move fast but quietly as you cleared the top steps, while checking both ways for a potential assailant. Along with all the doors to use as cover, it gave any intruder the advantage.

On the other hand, she reminded herself, Slik had a weapon and had probably done this kind of thing many times before.

She heard his footsteps moving lightly up the treads as she moved through to the living room. Empty. Next was the kitchen, also bare save for the flickering of the CCTV monitors covering the front, sides and rear. Nothing of interest there.

She moved across the hallway to the study. The door was wide open. She couldn't recall if that was how it had been left, but stepped inside and listened.

Nothing.

She stepped back into the hallway and heard movement above her. “Slik?”

He was coming down the stairs, tucking this gun away and shaking his head. “Nobody home but us bears.”

“But there has been, right? Or am I imagining things?”

He shook his head. “If you are, so am I.” They had both sensed it the moment they stepped through the front door: somebody had been inside the house while they had been at the hospital. It wasn't a specific smell, nor were there any visual signs; but they were experienced enough to have picked up the signals as surely as if the visitor had left a calling card on the hall table. Yet it didn't appear that anything had been disturbed or stolen.

So why?

Vaslik seemed to have one answer. He raised a hand to warn Ruth to stay still, then knelt by the study door and scrubbed at a minute trace of white powder on the carpet against the skirting board. He ran his fingers up the wall immediately above it, to a framed print of a desert scene. When he carefully pulled the frame away from the wall, Ruth saw a slim biscuit the size of a ten pence piece stuck to the back.

Vaslik turned to her and made a circular motion with his finger at the veiling and walls, then a zipping motion across his mouth and tapped his ear.

Ruth stared. She didn't want to believe it, but he was right.

He was talking about bugs.

Somebody had been inside and placed listening devices inside the house.

It took Vaslik an hour to scour the building, taking great care not to disturb anything until he was certain. One by one he discovered four similar devices. They were small, slim and easily concealed; one behind a photo frame in the living room, another in the kitchen above a cupboard, a third in the study close to the filing cabinet and one in Nancy's room.

He took them down and wrapped them carefully in a towel, and placed the bundle in the airing cupboard. Then he beckoned Ruth into the kitchen and turned on the kettle.

“It won't be all of them,” he warned her quietly, once the kettle was making a satisfactory level of noise to mask conversation. “All I got was the ones they wanted us to find. There will be others but much better concealed.”

“Won't they get suspicious when they don't hear us talking?”

“They'll hear plenty—but only what we want them to hear.”

“Still, they'll know you found some of the bugs.”

“Of course. But they'll keep listening because that's the way the game is played.”

“Game?” She gave him a cynical look. “Is that what this is?”

“Sure. Spies spying on spies; it's the same the world over. You trick the opposition into thinking they know what you're doing, but you always have a plan B.”

“And their plan B is to have more bugs that we don't know about.”

“That's right—unless we bring in some electronic
counter-measures
and sweep the house. Then everybody's back to square one and it starts all over.”

“Jesus, what a waste of time. Did you recognise the equipment?”

“You mean where it's from?”

“Yes.”

“It's not really my scene. Electronic surveillance is a huge business; there are many different devices made and sold all over the world. I know the FBI and Secret Service use bugs from a variety of sources, as do your own intelligence agencies here, probably. And nobody uses bugs that can be traced back home, anyway; it's too big a giveaway.”

Ruth didn't say anything. This whole affair was taking on a much bigger significance than a simple kidnapping—if a kidnapping could ever be referred to as simple. From the snatch of a small child, it seemed to have blossomed into something more and more complex, with ever more questions and fewer answers.

“I wish I knew what the hell was going on here,” she muttered. “This thing's beginning to drive me nuts.”