The Locker

by Adrian Magson

  The gun was something else.

  “Are you supposed to be carrying?” Ruth asked her. Cruxys employees were not officially authorised to carry weapons, although in extreme situations where life and limb was threatened, some were known to bend the rules. She wondered what Vaslik felt about that, having come from a gun culture where going armed was a factor of daily life for those involved in law enforcement and security.

  “They said it was OK, considering.”

  Ruth didn’t believe her, but let it pass. In Gina’s place she’d have been carrying a Heckler & Koch MP5 switched to full auto. “How’s the lady of the house?”

  “Not great. She doesn’t like me being here and doesn’t hide it. I can’t make out whether she’s a latent racist or if it’s a territorial thing.”

  “She’s hard work, I agree. But give her the benefit of the doubt; she’s just had her kid snatched and her life’s gone belly up. Any calls or visitors?”

  “None. The team did their bit and left. I don’t think they found much. Jakers was getting truly pissed because she wouldn’t leave them alone for two minutes, always hovering and asking what they were doing.”

  Bill Jakers was a former Met Police Scene of Crime officer in charge of the support team who ran forensics and provided equipment and logistics for case officers like her and Vaslik. He normally had the patience of a saint but clearly Nancy hovering over his shoulder had tested it to the full.

  “I think he was hoping I’d put her in cuffs and lock her in the bathroom. It was tempting, but I resisted.” She hesitated, then said, “Jakers found a small spot of blood in the nanny’s room, on the doorframe. He said to mention it.”

  “Significant?” In other words, was it fresh.

  “Fairly. Just a spot. Could have been nothing.”

  Ruth absorbed the information. It might prove that the snatch had happened here, rather than on the street. If there had been a struggle, such as the nanny protecting her charge, then she’d have been the first obstacle down. Or it could have been coincidence.

  “Thanks, Gina.” She was no further forward, save that it might knock on the head any idea of the nanny being involved. But if she wasn’t, where was she? Would they have bothered taking an adult with them? It increased the risk of exposure considerably, having a hostile along who could kick off at any moment.

  She’d been studying Gina while she was talking, her eyes in particular. It wasn’t her job to run field assessments of other staff members, least of all one who’d been injured in the line of duty; but she was trying to figure out how much Gina had changed since the last time they had met. Self-confidence was a must for her job, but it could easily vanish after the kind of hot contact she had experienced. She could only judge by appearances, but in spite of her colour and thinness, she had to admit that Gina looked good and ready to go. She’d certainly come out here double-quick and ready to intercept them, so she had lost none of her alertness.

  “Where’s the camera?” She meant the one that had spotted their approach.

  Gina nodded towards the rear gate. “There’s a minicam covering the lane and others on the sides and front. I saw you coming but the rain killed some of the detail.” She brushed moisture off her face. “Which reminds me, can we get inside? I don’t want to push my luck and catch pneumonia.”

  They walked inside, Gina turning to scan the rear garden before following and closing the door. It was done smoothly and Ruth decided to try and get Vaslik on-side about her. Just because he had high standards and some women didn’t seem to figure, it wasn’t fair riding her because she’d got herself shot.

  The kitchen had been turned into an observation room. Two monitors sat on the work surface, each with a split screen linked to separate cameras. The pictures were good apart from the rain, but clear enough to give adequate warning of an intruder.

  Nancy was waiting for them in the living room, body as tight as a bow-string. She stepped forward to greet Ruth, face open to receive news. She looked fragile, as if the intervening hours since they had last spoken were draining her of vitality.

  “Have you found anything?”

  “Not yet.” Ruth glanced at Vaslik but he gave a minute shake of his head. She still hadn’t decided whether to tell her about the deserted shop in Queensway; finding out that her husband’s supposed charity base was empty might be enough to undermine her world even further. At worst it would prove nothing except that the charity was a fake.

  And that her husband had lied to her.

  thirteen

  “I’m sorry to do this. It must seem pointless but I want to go over a few things with you.” Ruth took the armchair while Vaslik stood by the front window. Gina was watching the CCTV monitors in between patrolling the house, automatically trying door and window handles and noting any movement outside.

  “What sort of things?” Nancy was on the settee clutching Beth’s teddy, Homesick, against her tummy. Ruth was shocked by how fragile she looked, and asked if she should call a doctor. But Nancy wouldn’t hear of it.

  “I’m fine. Just tired, that’s all. What do you want to know?”

  “I’m trying to understand what the link is between your husband and why Beth would have been taken. There’s clearly a connection and we need to isolate that if we stand any chance of finding out who took her and why.”

  Nancy shook her head, her eyes strained with exhaustion, and Ruth wondered if some sleeping tablets would work. She might speak to the tame doctor Cruxys kept on call. “But why should it involve Michael? It could be anything or nothing. These things are so random, aren’t they?”

  Ruth went over the words on the card again. “I’ve seen kidnap notes before, Nancy. Some in live situations, lots of real examples used in training. They all follow a similar format and carry the same message: it’s usually We’ve taken someone of value to you and Don’t tell the authorities. If not immediately, there’s usually a follow-on shortly afterwards saying what they want in return.”

  “Isn’t that what this one says—not to tell the police?”

  “Yes. But that’s not all. It tells you that they’ve taken your daughter, but there’s no demand. No phone calls, no follow-on communication, nothing. However, there is one difference: they tell you to tell your husband. Believe me, that’s significant.” She paused to let that sink in, although by the way Nancy’s eyes were fluttering, she wasn’t certain it was making much headway.

  “The punctuation is very specific,” she continued. “It says Do NOT call the police. DO tell your husband. Two seemingly separate statements but meaning one thing: they want Michael to know what’s happened. That’s so pointed it has to be for a reason, don’t you think?”

  There was no response, merely a drained look of utter incomprehension.

  Vaslik came and sat down alongside Nancy. She flinched but didn’t move.

  “Whoever wrote that note,” he said softly, “wants your husband to know. But why? He’s hardly ever here and you handle all the household finances and stuff, don’t you?”

  She nodded, apparently beyond being curious about how he would know that.

  “So if it’s not money they’re after, what could Michael give them that you couldn’t?”

  “He’s right,” Ruth added. “The lack of explanation or demand means they’re giving you time to contact him. But why?”

  “I don’t know!” The words were squeezed out with a high keening sound, and Ruth felt the hairs on the back of her neck bristle. She leaned forward and took Nancy’s hands in hers. It was like holding onto two steel rods. She looked into her eyes with as much intensity as she could muster, waiting for her to calm down. The last thing they needed right now was for this woman to suffer a breakdown.

  “It’s all right, Nancy,” she said firmly. “We’re going to find Beth. But to do that we need to understand what could have brought this thing on. Why they took her.�
��

  Nancy relaxed by degrees, demonstrated by a slow softening of her bodyline. Her eyes became more focussed and her shoulders lost their tension. Instead, silent tears flowed down her face. “I’m sorry … I just want Michael and Beth to come home.” She found a handkerchief and wiped her eyes, slowly regaining control before saying, “Tell me what you want to know.”

  “I want you to try and remember which agencies your husband has worked for—and where. It doesn’t have to be the last one; we checked the number you gave me but there’s no reply. They could be out in the field somewhere. We’ll keep trying. In the meantime it would help if you could recall any other names or details.”

  For a moment Nancy didn’t reply, and Ruth wondered if she had pushed her too far. Then the woman stood up and walked out of the room towards the front of the house.

  Ruth looked at Vaslik, who shrugged and made a motion for her to wait. Gina was out in the hallway and would keep an eye on her.

  Five minutes later, Nancy returned. She was carrying a small address book. She dropped it on the coffee table. “I’d almost forgotten about this,” she murmured. “It’s Michael’s. He didn’t use it much. One day he sat down and said he wanted to make a list of the agencies he might work for and the places he wanted to go. He said it was a kind of wish list.”

  “Did you help him?”

  Nancy nodded and gave a wan smile. “He didn’t want me to, but I needed to be involved, to be a part of his work. It was important to me that we share it. In the end he let me help.”

  Ruth opened the address book. It was leather-backed, with pages for the recording of basic information such as phone, address and email, and a short space after each contact for brief notes.

  It was like looking at a UN list of aid organisations, with the big names first, such as Oxfam, Médecins Sans Frontières, and Save the Children, followed by many names Ruth had either only vaguely or never heard of before.

  “I wasn’t much help, really,” Nancy confessed. “I could only think of the obvious names like the ones you hear about in the news.”

  “I’d be the same,” Ruth agreed, flicking through the pages. “I’ve never heard of most of these. How did you find them?”

  “Michael researched them at the library, although I think he already knew about a lot of them.” She looked sheepish. “I’m afraid you’ll think we’re Luddites—we don’t have a computer. I guess that makes us really unusual, doesn’t it?”

  Ruth didn’t say anything. Checking the household computer had been on her list of things to do, but that was clearly not an option. She wanted to ask why, but Vaslik beat her to it.

  “You don’t like technology?” he said. He sounded shocked.

  “Michael doesn’t trust it,” Nancy explained. “He prefers to use the library if he needs to access the Internet.” She shrugged. “We get by. I don’t need one apart from at work so it’s never been a problem, but I suppose Beth will want one someday—” She stopped suddenly, realising what she was saying, and looked down at the teddy.

  “She will,” said Ruth firmly. She pointed at the book where some of the names listed had ticks against them. “What do the ticks mean?”

  “I put them there. I got into the habit whenever Michael went away of ticking off the name of the agency he was working for.” She looked a little wistful and even guilty. It became clear why. “He would rarely remember to tell me who the latest assignment was for, so I decided to keep track myself. But after a while I realised it was pointless.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Michael does his own thing. He changes his mind at the last minute. He says it’s because he feels different priorities—places where he’s needed more and where he can do the most good.”

  Sounds a regular saint, Ruth thought drily. “Didn’t he realise that was hard for you, disappearing like that without a word?”

  “Sort of. But it made no difference. He’s so committed … it took over his life. Our lives.” She twisted her fingers together. “I rang a couple of agencies once when I needed to get in touch with him. Beth was really unwell and I was panicking because nothing I did seemed to do any good.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was told he wasn’t working for them. At first I was sure I’d got the numbers wrong. Then one of them said he’d failed to turn up as planned, and called to let them know. I found out when he came back that he’d switched agencies to help someone out.” She shrugged at the memory, pushing it into a deep recess.

  “What did he say?”

  “He wasn’t very pleased. He accused me of checking up on him. So I stopped.” She looked like a little lost girl who’d been caught out with her hand in the biscuit box.

  Ruth slipped the address book in her pocket, wondering if there was any significance in what Nancy had told her. Probably not. The man was an idealist and, by the sounds of it, as selfish as hell. But the list of agencies might bear studying later. Whether it would turn up any ideas was doubtful but right now it was all they had.

  “There’s one other thing,” she said. “Back at the beginning, you didn’t seem to know much about the Safeguard contract, other than having to ring a number and give a reference code if something bad happened.”

  “Code Red, yes. You must think I’m a helpless woman.” She looked Ruth in the eye and said, “You’re probably right. All I knew was what Michael told me: if anything happened, ring the number.”

  And that was good enough for you?”

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”

  Ruth felt like telling her she wasn’t a doormat, that was why. Instead she changed tack. “Earlier you agreed that all the household finances and official dealings are in your name.”

  “Because Michael’s away so much, yes. So?”

  “Where is your bank account held?”

  “In Edgware. I’ve had one there for years and never got round to changing it.”

  “And Michael?”

  “We use my account for everything.”

  “So he doesn’t have one?”

  “I—That’s right.” She paused as if realising for the first time how odd that might seem. “It’s a little unusual, I suppose, but that’s the way we do things.”

  “How does he support himself while he’s away? Do you send him money?”

  Nancy’s face went stiff at Ruth’s tone and the intimate line of questions. She blinked repeatedly. “Why are you so interested in bank accounts? What does it have to do with my daughter’s disappearance? How will it help Beth?”

  “That’s what we need to find out, Nancy. If your husband has money—even if it’s money you don’t know about but somebody else does—that could be what these people are after. Ransom, pure and simple.”

  Nancy swallowed. When she spoke, her voice was hesitant. “Michael never says much about when he’s out in the field. And I’ve never asked. I know that might seem strange to you, but he takes care of all that—it’s how we are. I think it can sometimes get too much for him, all the misery and tragedy, so I let him deal with it in his own way. What makes you think he has an account I don’t know about?”

  “Because we know you didn’t pay for the Safeguard contract.”

  No reaction.

  “There’s really only one other person who could have done, isn’t there?”

  There was a lengthy silence as Nancy absorbed the implication of what Ruth was saying. The only sounds were the ticking of the immersion heater, the drone of a car moving along the road outside and the shrill squeak of a child laughing in a neighbouring garden. “I don’t follow,” Nancy said. She had jumped at the child’s laughter, no doubt sharply reminded of Beth, and was looking alarmed, her eye-blink rate increasing rapidly.

  “You never wondered about it? Where the money came from? The policy isn’t cheap.”

  “No, I-I never thought about it un
til now. Michael must have mentioned it before, I guess, but …’ She shook her head as if it might help process the information. “How did he pay for it?”

  “By cheque through a bank account in Kensington. The renewals will be paid out of the same account.”

  “Kensington?” She blinked rapidly. “But how can that be? There must be a mistake. We don’t have an account there. It’s in Edgware—I told you.”

  “Did he have an account when you first met?” Vaslik asked.

  “I don’t know. I suppose so, for getting paid and stuff. It wasn’t something we talked about.”

  Ruth felt a brush of impatience. Nancy was, intentionally or not, giving them the run-around. One minute angry and defensive, the next playing the helpless woman. Yet the latter role didn’t equate with her handling all the household finances and paperwork, or even her accounts job. If she was organised to cope with officialdom in all its forms, keeping track of another bank account should have been a piece of cake.

  Or was it another pointer to her husband not telling her everything?

  fourteen

  “I need an hour of down-time,” Ruth told Vaslik. After the session with Nancy she was feeling drained. Life was a lot easier dealing with suspects; at least you could get heavy with them with some justification. But grieving mothers with daughters who’d gone missing and whose husbands turned out to be something of a mystery were altogether different.

  In spite of them trying different lines of questioning, Nancy had continued to maintain that she knew nothing about any Kensington bank account, even agreeing that it was probably a remnant of Michael’s previous life. But Ruth sensed that she was being deliberately vague. If so it could be simply out of embarrassment at not knowing something key about her husband’s financial affairs, or that she was in denial. In the end she decided not to push it. There had to be another way of getting some answers.