She walked straight past, checking out the glass panels in doors on the left. One was to a small interview room, another to a room with a treatment table, and another to the main fitness studio complete with equipment, mats and weights.
The end of the corridor ended in a fire door, so she turned and retraced her steps, stopping level with the last line of lockers and holding her phone to her ear. A camera stared blankly down at her from the junction leading to the front desk or the pool.
Miming a conversation, she studied the bank of lockers. Just as Nancy had described, the key to No 2 was held by a large safety pin, unlike its neighbours which all had orange fobs.
Still talking to an imaginary person, she reached out idly and flipped the door open. Just a locker, empty of cards, threatening or otherwise. And from here, there was no way anybody loitering near the front desk could see who was using them.
But the camera could. She felt a tingle of hope.
She closed the locker and turned to check the doors on the other side. The glass viewing panels revealed little. It was possible, at a stretch, that somebody inside the rooms or the fitness studio could see the lockers. But which one?
She had seen enough.
She dropped the mime act and dialled the office number, asking to be put through to Aston. She walked back past the reception desk, waving at the girl in the white coat, and noting the name of the management company from an information brochure in a rack by the door.
“Aston.”
“I need access to some CCTV footage.” She explained where it was and the possible significance, and gave him the name of the management company.
“I don’t know them personally,” he murmured. “But I’m sure I can find somebody who does. Leave it with me.”
“Thank you.”
“What are your thoughts?” It was one of his more common questions; he liked his investigators to voice their initial reactions to a situation and get them out there for discussion.
“About this place? Could be a member of staff with access to the security footage. All they’d need to do is watch on the days she was in here and they’d soon build up a pattern. But the building is wide open in other ways. If we can see who placed the card in the locker, we’ve got it nailed.”
He grunted, carefully non-committal. Luck like that rarely came along, and they both knew it. He added, “One thing, Ruth; you might be careful of our latest addition to the board. He comes with a lot of investment capital and likes to give the impression of wagging the dog. But in the final analysis he’s also following orders. That makes him anxious to achieve results as quickly and as cost-effectively as possible.” He was warning her about Martyn Claas.
“You mean not cutting in too heavily to the Safeguard premiums, even though that’s the reason they were paid to us?”
“Precisely. Go to any insurance company and you’ll find the same argument.”
“Who gives him those orders?” Apart from office gossip, she knew next to nothing about most board members, and even less about this latest addition.
“Claas is Dutch, along with nearly half the European board in Amsterdam. But the bigger piece of the cake is American, from a group called Greenville Inc. Between them they pretty much dominate salvage and IT on the Dutch side, and Security, venture capital and Risk Management on the US side. Claas is believed to be building strong links with the US State Department, and is pushing hard for a slice of their market. It was he who approved bringing in American personnel like Vaslik and James Ellworthy, to show that we had the right employment credentials.”
Ellworthy, she recalled, was an IT specialist who lived somewhere in the basement surrounded by electronic toys, but she had never met him. It worried her slightly that Slik had any kind of connection with Claas, and she wondered how close it was. She only realised that she’d spoken her thoughts aloud when Aston responded.
“Vaslik doesn’t know him. He was recommended along with several other names, but he had to pass an interview panel the same as all employees. He did so on his own merits. Does it bother you?”
“No. I just like to know I can trust whoever’s got my back.”
“Fair comment. But remember Vaslik’s the fish out of water here; he probably feels the same about you.”
She switched off the phone and walked back to her car deep in thought about Claas and the people above him. Bloody venture capitalists; modern-day alchemists with their fingers in all the pies.
Andy Vaslik liked using London’s underground. It bore little comparison to the marble, stained glass and chandeliers of Moscow’s famed metro, which he’d experienced, or even the New York subway, which he’d lived and breathed for most of his life. But it was anonymous enough for him to move among people while remaining faceless; one of the crowd, in the background, Most of his fellow travellers, whatever their nationality, were happy to keep to their own space, unthreatening and reserved. He liked that. He felt more in control here than in a car, where eyes on the sidewalks and in other vehicles were drawn towards those fortunate enough to be insulated from the masses and the relentless push and shove of pedestrians.
He emerged onto the street at Lancaster Gate into the grey light of threatening rain, and followed his nose to Queensway. He turned up the bustling shopping area and stopped at a side street containing a handful of smaller shops. He checked the numbers and found the one found by the researchers matching the telephone number given by Nancy Hardman. The property was vacant and sandwiched between a record shop and a travel agency. The front window was heavy with grime and a look of desolation, and plastered on the outside with posters of music events, clubs and missing persons.
He tried the door on the off-chance. Locked tight. The fascia overhead bore the remains of lettering suggesting the premises could have been anything from a topless bar to a laundromat. All he could make out through the glass between the posters and dirt was an empty space with electric cables hanging from curling ceiling tiles and a pile of junk mail and old newspapers growing brown and sun-faded behind the door. Somebody had taped up the letterbox to stop a further accumulation of paper and other detritus.
He went to the record shop next door. It looked as if it had been there since Cole Porter was a boy. A bell pinged as he entered and a youth with an unreasonably long and plaited goatee beard looked up and smiled a greeting.
“How ya doin’? The accent was Australian, friendly.
“The place next door,” said Vaslik. “Anybody been there recently?”
“You from the council?”
“No. Just asking.” He looked round and saw a box of classical music CDs. Reached across and plucked out one by the Ossipov Balalaika Orchestra. It wasn’t a personal favourite but it would serve a purpose. “I’ll take this.” He placed a twenty on the counter but kept his fingers firmly on the end.
The youth got the message. “No worries. I’ve been here eighteen months and nobody’s used it all that time. What I hear is the owner died and it’s in the hands of blood-sucking scumbags in smart suits.”
Lawyers, Vaslik figured; the same in any language. “Not even a pop-up?” Vacant stores were sometimes used as a temporary home to charities unable to afford high street rents. They’d come in, do their work, then move on.
“Never a pop-up anything ’cept for rats … and a piss-hole for drunks.”
Vaslik let the note go, took the CD, and left.
eleven
Nancy observed the arrival of the forensics team with feelings of resentment. Two men and a woman in casual street clothes, each carrying a large aluminium briefcase. They filed through the back gate and into the kitchen with courteous nods, but she could see the thoughts behind the eyes, knowing that they were judging her. What mother, they were thinking, goes to a gym and leaves her young daughter in the dubious care of a nanny, while her husband is off somewhere where she can’t even get hold of him?
Screw them, she thought; they don’t know anything about me or my family. And neither, she decided, does the tall, rod-thin woman with the coffee-coloured skin who followed them minutes later, and proceeded to prowl the house like a tiger. She introduced herself as Gina Fraser and announced that she would stay with Nancy until her daughter was returned. For now she wanted to get a feel for the layout of the house and its surroundings.
“Why?” Nancy didn’t want her here any more than the others, and she definitely didn’t care for the cool manner with which she was being studied, like a laboratory specimen on a glass plate.
“Because it’s my job. It’s what I do.” Fraser’s attitude was short on social skills, with a take-it-or-leave-it tone that precluded idle chat. “I’m here to look after you, to make sure you’re safe. To do that I have to know my way around.” Her manner softened momentarily as she added, “You need to be here for when Beth gets back. It’s my job to see that you are.”
“You’re a bodyguard?”
“Yes.”
“Are you armed?”
“Would that bother you?”
“Yes, of course. Why would you need a gun in my house?”
Fraser shrugged. “To shoot anyone who tries to harm you.”
Nancy wasn’t sure if she was joking, but felt herself repelled by the idea. “Just like that?”
“No. I’d probably warn them first. Or not.” A lift of an eyebrow was the only hint she gave that she might not be serious.
Nancy followed her around the house, watching as she tested windows, checked locks and viewed every aspect from the house of the road, garden and neighbouring properties. It looked casual, but she was certain the woman didn’t miss a thing, and began to feel that Fraser, at least, had her best interests at heart, unlike the other people currently burrowing into every aspect of the house, scooping up material, vacuuming the carpets with small, hand-held machines and placing debris she mostly couldn’t see in neat plastic bags.
After a while she broke away from Fraser and watched the team, led by a man who had introduced himself as Jakers. A robust looking individual in his fifties, with steel-grey hair and rimless spectacles, he seemed to look right through her. It made her feel uncomfortable and she broke away after a while and watched from a distance.
“Do you have to go through my things?” she demanded more than once, when drawers were opened and cupboards inspected. “Nothing in there has been touched, I can tell you now.”
“Won’t be long,” Jakers responded each time. “We’ll be out from under your feet in no time.” He might as well have added the words, “if you leave us alone to get on with it.” But he didn’t.
She stopped in the living room in front of a photo of Beth, all smiles and pink-faced. She felt instantly the eruption of tears coming on and rubbed her eyes before they could spill. Breaking down wouldn’t do, not here and now. She had to remain in control and wait for Michael to get here. Then Beth would be returned and everything would go back to normal.
She looked round for her phone, then remembered the American, Vaslik, taking it from the kitchen. She waited until the searchers had moved into the living room, then went through to the kitchen and opened drawers until she found it, lying on top of some tea towels. She had to try Michael’s number again, to tell him what was going on. Not having some kind of contact was driving her out of her mind.
A shadow moved and Fraser appeared behind her like a ghost. “What’s up?”
“I want to try Michael’s phone again.”
“It’s best you don’t,” Fraser replied, and eased the phone out of her hands. “You need to stay off the lines in case they call.”
“They?” She thought Fraser was talking about her two colleagues.
“The people who took Beth.”
Her throat closed tight at the reminder and she felt a momentary panic at not being able to breathe. She swallowed hard to regain control, then said, “How would they? They don’t know the numbers.”
“You think?” Fraser cocked her head to one side. “They got close enough to take the battery out of your phone. I think they’ll have the number of your landline, too.”
Nancy backed off, suddenly reminded that whoever had taken Beth had somehow managed to worm their way into every aspect of her life and routine. Fraser was right: they had controlled her phone, so what else had they managed to take over?
She went into her bedroom where the team had just finished searching. Everything had been put back neatly enough, but there were the inevitable signs that nothing was as it had been before, the subtle differences in layout showing that somebody other than herself had been here.
It was a further reminder that her life had changed, and there was nothing she could do about it but wait and put her trust in divine providence.
Not like the woman, Gonzales; a strong woman, assured and forthright, who probably never experienced a moment of doubt. She wouldn’t baulk at such events, but would know precisely what to do to fight back.
She found herself almost envying her that strength. But she countered it by thinking that Gonzales didn’t have somebody like Michael in her life. Or Beth.
She sat on the bed, feeling utterly alone, wondering what was going to happen … and what kind of catalyst had brought this nightmare onto her and her family.
twelve
“What’s this for?” Ruth was holding the CD. Vaslik had dropped it in her lap without comment. His clothes were damp with rain and his face gleaming in spite of the car’s heater. He appeared not to notice.
They were sitting in Ruth’s car a block away from the rear entrance to the Hardman house. The rain was steady, one of those relentless London showers that takes no prisoners and obscures the surrounding scenery like a veil.
“Call it a visitor’s gift. It’s good for the nerves.”
“I don’t need my nerves soothed, and if I did I’d play whale music, not the Balalaika.” She turned it over and read the blurb. “Still, might make me less suicidal than bloody Snow Patrol. Thank you. Did you come up with anything?”
He described the empty shop. “I think our Mrs. Hardman is hiding something.”
“Or she’s gullible and believes everything her husband tells her. It happens; people believe what they’re happy to hear.”
“Wives, you mean?” Vaslik smiled. “I didn’t know you were a feminist.”
“I’m not. But look at the facts: most husbands have more control in one way or another, and most wives let them. I’m not saying it’s the fault of the men or the weakness of the women, it’s simply the way it is.”
“You think that’s the case here?”
“Sort of. But I think Nancy Hardman is an extreme example; she believes utterly in her husband, accepting his absences without question. She’s adopted the position of never asking where he goes or what he does: she just accepts it as part of the job he’s chosen in life. I don’t understand that kind of relationship, but I know it’s not uncommon.”
“So her part of the bargain is to run the family life, bring up the daughter and act like it’s normal? I don’t get that.”
“It’s normal to her. It probably wasn’t once, but she’s hardly a firebrand; she knows next to nothing about his life before they met and seems happy to go along with what he wants. That’s a little weird but I bet she’s not the only one.”
“Do you want to confront her about it?”
Ruth shrugged. “And say what—that she’s a submissive drip who allowed her husband to impose his life on her without question?” She shook her head. “Let me think about it.”
“What about the nonexistent charity shop?”
“She might not know about that. It was just an address somebody gave out to get the phone. Doesn’t mean they ever went there.”
“Or it was cloned.”
“Or that. Either
way, if the whole thing is a fake, telling her could do more harm than good.”
She told him about Fitness Plus and how it wouldn’t have taken much to bone up on Nancy Hardman’s every movement. “I could get past the desk without trying, but my money’s still on the CCTV. If there’s anything to see, Aston will get it.”
“And in the meantime?”
“We’ll go in and check on Fraser and have another swing at the wife. I just don’t believe Hardman could go this long without getting in touch with her. Something about this doesn’t feel kushti.”
He lifted his eyebrows. “You speak Romanian?”
“I speak street. Come on.”
They left the car and made their way through the rain to the rear gate. They were halfway down the garden path when a figure stepped out from the side of the house near the kitchen door. It was a woman. She had one hand behind her back. The other held a rolled-up newspaper.
Ruth put out her hand to stop Vaslik, who was already moving away to the side, his stance stiff with tension. “Steady—it’s Gina.”
Fraser looked calm and controlled. She was dressed in boots, jeans and an all-weather top, as if she had just popped out between errands to take in the washing. But Ruth wasn’t fooled. The newspaper was a blind; make a wrong move and Gina would toss it in the air to draw the eye while bringing out her other hand from behind her back. The rest would be textbook—and deadly.
Gina saw Ruth and relaxed. “Hi, Ruthie. How are you doing, girl?”
“I’m good, thanks. Have you met Slik?”
Gina nodded and brought her hand to the front. She was holding a small semi-automatic pistol. She flicked her jacket aside and slipped the gun into a holster high on her hip. “No, but I heard about him. You OK, Andrei?”
“Always.” Vaslik walked past her without smiling and entered the house.
“Friendly. What’s his problem?” Gina commented wryly.
“Hormones, I think.” Ruth couldn’t do much about Slik’s attitude; he’d probably heard about Gina getting shot and was doubting her capabilities to carry out her job effectively. She found herself sharing as little of those doubts. The former bodyguard looked good at a distance, but up close she looked wasted, with dark rings round her eyes and an unnatural gauntness to her cheeks. Given what she had been through, she had good reason.
The Locker Page 7
