The Locker

by Adrian Magson

  While talking to Nancy a question had occurred to her; something that needed to be dealt with by her alone. She handed Vaslik the note she’d made of Hardman’s Finchley address. “Could you check on this place while I’m out? See if anybody remembers them. They left a while back but there might still be somebody around who remembers them.”

  She was relieved that they were able to split the tasks between them; trying to check out all the details together would take too long. At least this way they could spread the load.

  “No problem,” he said easily. “Call if you need me.”

  Ruth’s parents lived in a neat maisonette near Gerrard’s Cross. It was actually Denham but they liked to think that they rubbed shoulders with the wealthier neighbours up the road. You could still hear the twin traffic flows on the M40 and M25, Ruth always reminded them, but they claimed she was deluded. It was a harmless pretence on their part, and she played along with it willingly.

  She visited them whenever she could, which was less than they wanted. Her father had retired after twenty-five years with the Met Police and a further ten years as a corporate security advisor. He now played regular golf—badly—and the two of them danced more than adequately with a local ballroom class.

  On the way, she picked up the CD Vaslik had given her and slipped it into the player. The music was cheerful, upbeat and different, and she switched it off after ten minutes. Maybe she’d get him some English folk music in retaliation.

  “Nail down the silver,” her father said as she stepped through the front door. It was his usual greeting followed by a hug. He still had the build of the rugby player he had once been but was showing signs, she noted, of thinning hair and liver spots.

  Ruth’s mother, ten years younger and slim, rolled her eyes at him and gave Ruth a kiss and a long squeeze, then went to make tea.

  “What’s up?” her father queried, walking through to the living room.

  “Does there have to be anything up?” she replied, then gave in when he looked at her with raised eyebrows. He could read her and most other people like a book. “Sorry, dad, but I need to run something by you. Do you have time?”

  He smiled and sat back. “Always got time for you, Ruthie. You still with that bunch of corporate mercenaries?” It was the one piece of grit between them, partly professional disapproval on his part, the other part concern for her safety. It had been just the same when she joined the MOD Police, although the differences between their two policing jobs were less marked. The question also signalled his continued interest in what went on in the world, especially where crimes and trouble were concerned. And he looked on Cruxys as a connection to both.

  She told him about the kidnap and the events that had followed, and the brick wall they had encountered with Michael Hardman’s whereabouts. While she was talking, her mother joined them, pouring tea and offering biscuits.

  “Sounds a bit rum,” her father agreed mildly. “You’d think he’d have left some better contact details for his wife at least. Mind you, anybody takes out a Safeguard contract with your lot has got to be a bit shy of a good, normal life, haven’t they?”

  “Jim,” his wife cautioned gently. They both knew from Ruth that Safeguard contracts were taken out by executives and others working in “difficult” regions of the world. “He was doing the right thing, in case he got … you know.”

  He pulled a face but didn’t argue. Instead he reached over to a side table and picked up a small black diary. He riffled through the pages, then stood up. “Be back in a minute.”

  “He’s still got the little black book, then,” said Ruth. It was something she’d been counting on. Her father’s list of useful contacts had been as legendary in the family as it was among his police colleagues, and was a habit he’d obviously found impossible to break. Many of the names listed were probably long gone by now, but she knew he tried to keep them up to date. It was his way of keeping in touch with his past.

  Ruth’s mother nodded. “It’s got more names in more businesses than 192,” she murmured. “I bet you he comes back with someone to talk to.”

  Five minutes later she was proved right. They heard the ting of the phone being replaced in the hall, and her husband walked back in and handed Ruth a slip of paper.

  “George Paperas,” he said. “He knows more about charity organisations than any man walking. He’s worked with the best, including the UN, and still gets called in for advice on disaster response. He knows everybody in the field of aid relief. If anybody can help it’ll be him. Buy him a pint and he’ll write you a book on it.” He looked at her with a proud smile. “With a kiddie out there missing, I’m guessing you’ll want to see him straight away. He’s waiting to hear from you. He’s a hop and spit from your offices, so he’ll be easy to call in if needed.”

  Ruth stood up and gave him a squeeze, then did the same with her mother. “Sorry about this, mum. Dad’s right—it’s already been several hours and we need to keep on top of it.”

  Her father stopped her as she opened the front door. He looked serious. “I know they said no police, Ruthie, but you know they’ll have to be brought on board sooner or later. You can’t not tell them; when it gets out, they, the Home Office and the media will crucify the lot of you for keeping it quiet. Especially if it turns bad.”

  She nodded, the reminder giving her a sick feeling in her stomach. “I know, dad. But it’s not my call.”

  She left them standing at the door and drove back into London, calling Paperas on the way and setting up a meeting at a pub near where he worked as a charities consultant. Then she tried Vaslik’s number. The signal kept dropping out. She called Gina for an update.

  “All quiet,” Gina replied softly. “No calls, no visitors. Nancy’s upstairs.” She hesitated then said, “I gave her one of my sleeping pills.”

  “What?”

  “I know—I shouldn’t have. But she was pretty pissed about all the questions. I told her it was standard procedure, but she looked like she was about to freak out with exhaustion. I figured it might help if she got her head down for a bit.”

  “All right.” Ruth saw the sense in what Gina had done. But it wasn’t a clever move if anything went wrong and it turned out the person protecting her had shared prescription drugs with her, no matter what the reason. “But no more pills, right? We’ll call in professional help if we have to.”

  “Right. Sorry.”

  “What about you—how are you feeling?” The idea that Gina was carrying sleeping pills and might be relying on them to combat the trauma of the shooting kicking back in was a worry. It was another sign that she still wasn’t fully fit and therefore in no real state to be looking after the mother of a kidnap victim, let alone carrying a weapon.

  “I’m fine. I’m not using the pills, if that’s what’s worrying you. I just had some with me.”

  “Fair enough.” She checked her watch. Time was trickling by. “Could you call Slik for me?” She gave Gina the name of the pub where she was meeting Paperas and said, “Get him to meet me there.”

  Andy Vaslik exited East Finchley underground and turned north, pausing to check the map on his phone for the location of the Hardman’s original address. He walked the length of the street, his target number 24. But instead of a house he found a flower shop nestling alongside a restaurant, a pizza shop and a drug store, all with apartments overhead. The buildings were of red brick, with dormer windows looking out over the road, and the surroundings were neat, unassuming and suburban. The people here were not overtly rich, he guessed, but prosperous enough and proud of their homes. A good sign, since they would notice and remember more about their neighbours than most. Anybody unusual would stand out.

  He walked round the block, checking for rear access behind the shops. There were doors, but none that looked like openings onto individual apartments. He returned to the front and entered the florist. A woman in a nylon co
at and gloves was trimming the stems of some red roses, and turned to greet him, brushing away a fringe above her eyes.

  “Hi. Can I help you?”

  “I hope so, but I may have the wrong address.” He showed her the slip of paper with the Hardman’s address and phone number, and explained that he was trying to trace the family for a firm of solicitors. “It’s a bequest situation,” he added.

  The woman looked puzzled. “I think your information’s incorrect,” she said. “All the flats upstairs belong to the shops. I’ve been here five years and there’s never been anyone else here. What was the name again?”

  “Hardman. Nancy and Michael. They had a small daughter, Beth.”

  The woman looked apologetically blank. “Like I said, there must be a mistake. The newest tenants here are the family running the Mahal restaurant next door—and they’ve been here three years.” She went on to explain that the turnover in the area was low, which made the movement of neighbours easy to track. “We get to know each other quite well around here; it’s like a small village. The name doesn’t ring a bell, I’m afraid.”

  Vaslik thanked her and stepped outside. His phone was buzzing. It was Gina, with directions to a pub close to Piccadilly where Ruth was meeting a contact.

  “On my way,” he said, and disconnected.

  fifteen

  George Paperas was in his late sixties, deeply tanned and full of vigour, one of life’s doers. He bustled into the pub from the direction of upper Mayfair, greeted the barman like an old friend and ordered drinks as he made his way over to join Ruth at a corner table.

  “It has to be you,” he said cheerfully. “I can see the likeness to your parents.” He tactfully refrained, Ruth noted, from saying which of her parents she resembled most. “I’ve ordered gin and tonics—I hope you don’t mind. It’s nearly that time of day and I’m sure we both deserve it. How can I help?”

  She thanked him for coming and they talked small talk until the drinks arrived, then clinked glasses. Ruth was hoping Slik would be here but she decided to go ahead and find out what she could from this man. She wanted to get the blunt question out of the way first. If the answer was a yes, it would save a lot of talk.

  “Have you ever heard of a charity field worker named Michael Hardman?”

  Paperas thought about it, then shook his head. “He doesn’t sound familiar. Why?”

  “We’re trying to contact him. His daughter’s gone missing.”

  He lifted an eyebrow and asked the obvious question. “Has he gone missing with her?”

  “We thought of that, but there are … circumstances that indicate it’s unlikely. He’s somewhere in Africa, his wife thinks, and has been for a while, working for a small group thought to have had a temporary base in west London. We can’t confirm that and we don’t know the name of the agency … and his cell phone is out of range.”

  “Lord. You’ve got yourselves a problem, then. There are vast areas in Africa where you can’t get a signal unless you have the latest in satellite technology. And there aren’t many charities who can run to those, especially the very small groups.”

  She laid out the leather-bound book Nancy had given her containing the list of charities the couple had compiled, and explained what it was, including the ticks against some of the names. Paperas jumped on it immediately.

  “I’ve seen lists like this before,” he said. “It’s a wish list for people wanting to get into aid agency work. They usually begin with the big ones—Oxfam and so on—then work their way down until they find someone prepared to give them a chance.”

  “Surely all agencies are crying out for help, even the big ones.”

  “It depends what the volunteers are after. There are lots of young people with ideals—and some of them with money—who see the only valid charity work as out in the field, roughing it, to be brutally honest. But most agencies like them to put in some basic grunt jobs and training first before committing them to field work.”

  “Why? Help is help, surely?”

  “It is if it doesn’t slow down the aid effort. Even enthusiastic idealists need to know how to go about it. They have to be trained in procedure, local culture, logistics, health and safety—all manner of things you wouldn’t believe. Interacting with local officials is hugely important, as is understanding who you’re trying to help and what their sensitivities are. A lot of aid effort portrayed in the media looks as though it’s on the hoof and consists of little more than dolling out food, water and ground sheets to starving victims of famine, floods, disease and warfare. People who rush in and don’t observe the rules are of no use if they fall victim to disease themselves. It happens, of course, but among the reputable organisations there’s a logistical network to ensure that it’s rare. Unless aid workers understand what the particular charity wants to accomplish, they’re little more than an additional burden. Who did he work with?”

  “That’s the problem—we don’t know.” Ruth explained about his wife’s blank spot regarding her husband’s work and movements. “I think he’s tried numerous agencies, more on the hoof than anything organised.”

  “Really?” He looked surprised. “He sounds like a pain in the arse to me. You can’t have people turning up in the field unannounced; the local governors and officials don’t like it.” He flicked through the pages of the book, then dropped it on the table. “I know many of these, but there are names I’ve never heard of—and I know more than most people. Some of them are probably two-man bands with high hopes and a bit of money from charitable collections, who think they can simply go out to wherever they like and all will be well. I’m afraid it’s not that easy. A lot of them get into trouble and are forced to come back with their tails between their legs. And that doesn’t help anybody.” He took a gulp of his drink. “Does he have private money?”

  Ruth was cautious answering. “Not as far as we know. Why do you ask?”

  “I’m wondering why he moved around so much. Most aid workers like to find a niche and stick with it. Chopping and changing really doesn’t happen that much. Charity workers like to change direction and face new challenges like anyone else, but too much movement can indicate a lack of staying power. Some of the people I know have been in the same organisations for years. They do it because they feel a passion for the work and the people they help. But there are a few cruisers.”

  “Cruisers?”

  “The ones who don’t stick. They do a bit then move on. They’re not exactly unreliable, but they can signal a break in continuity. Charities are like commercial organisations; they like to know the workforce is going to be there in the morning when needed.” He nodded at the book. “And the names I know on that list with a tick against them are all very small. One person dropping out midway would floor them completely; they can’t function if that happens.”

  “I see.” She went to put the book away but he stopped her. “Tell you what I can do. “Let me contact the ones I know and see what I can find out. It’s a long shot, but the best I can do. I’ll ring you if I find anything.”

  She nodded gratefully. “Thanks, George.” She waited while he made notes of the names he knew, then took back the book. Paperas stood up and, glancing at his watch, said goodbye and that he’d be in touch.

  When there was still no sign of Vaslik after ten minutes, she tried his phone. It was engaged. She decided to make her way back to the Hardman house. When she emerged from the pub she was surprised to see Vaslik waiting for her across the street. He made no move to join her but gave a subtle signal for her to follow but stay back, before setting off along the pavement towards Piccadilly.

  She did so, wondering what he was doing. A few minutes later she caught up with him in the Burlington Arcade, where he was waiting by a men’s shoe shop.

  “What’s going on, Slik? Why didn’t you come in?”

  He ignored the question. “The guy you were with; was
he old-ish, tanned, walks like his feet are on fire?”

  “Yes. His name’s George Paperas. He’s a charity consultant. Why?”

  “As I came down the street, two guys were waiting, one on each side. When your man came out they immediately latched onto him—one in front, the other further back. I wouldn’t have thought much of it, except I recognised one of the tails.”

  Ruth felt a flutter of disquiet. “Who was he?”

  “The last time I saw him was at the DHS Glynco training facility in Georgia. A guy who knew him from law school pointed him out. He said he must have left law and moved up in the world.”

  “Good for him. Why would Homeland Security be interested in George Paperas?”

  He shrugged. “That’s just it: he’s not Homeland.”

  “So what is he?”

  “He’s CIA.”

  sixteen

  “There’s something not right about the Hardmans story,” said Vaslik, as they walked towards where Ruth had left her car. First they’d checked to make sure they weren’t being followed. It had entailed splitting up and circling the block, but once they were certain they were clean, they met up again.

  He told her what he’d found at the flower shop in Finchley. “The owner seemed pretty certain of her facts. If she’s right, it means Hardman was never anywhere near the place.”

  “Damn,” Ruth muttered. “I’m getting more and more confused.” She was also getting tired of Nancy Hardman’s economy with facts. It surely wasn’t that difficult to remember where you had lived … unless you were being deliberately evasive. But why would she be? And why would the Central Intelligence Agency be following George Paperas?

  “Is there any way we can check,” she asked, “about your CIA man?”