The Locker

by Adrian Magson

  “I explained who we are,” Vaslik replied. “That we are from Immigration and need to speak to Miss Sgornik. Nobody else, just her.” He nodded at the three men. “They’re now trying to decide if it’s worth telling us to go screw ourselves or whether we might bring down the ceiling on their status if they don’t cooperate.”

  Ruth understood their reaction. It was very likely that there were some illegals in the house, and at least two of these three might be without papers. She could hear voices and footsteps coming down the stairs as the building woke up to the presence of newcomers, no doubt alerted by the youth, and somebody called out from the front room.

  They didn’t have much time before a crowd gathered, and she fixed her attention on the cook, who seemed to be top dog here.

  “We’ve already had a long day,” she said quietly. “All we want is to know where Miss Sgornik is.” She gestured over her shoulder as somebody shouted from the stairs. “Tell your friends to go back to bed or whatever they were doing; we’re not interested in them.” She held her phone close to her mouth, like a radio. “Or we call in back-up and go to town on this place. Your call.”

  “Wait.” The cook raised a hand and gave instructions to one of the coffee drinkers, who turned and disappeared back up the hallway. He said something to the men gathered at the bottom of the stairs which had them retreating fast, two of them out the front door and the others back up the way they had come.

  Great weeding-out process, Ruth thought, and turned back to baldy, the cook.

  He was looking at Vaslik. “You’re American?”

  “Yes, I am. Problem?”

  “Why are you here, dealing with this … stuff.” He gestured at the house with his spoon, flicking a gob of tomato sauce onto the floor. He cursed under his breath and grabbed a cloth and bent to clean it up.

  “I’m on an exchange program,” Vaslik explained. “Not that it concerns you. What’s your name, by the way? I’m Andrei.”

  “They call me Aron. This is my house.”

  “OK, Aron. Where’s Miss Sgornik?”

  The cook dropped his spoon in the pot and slid it off the heat. “OK. We don’t want trouble, all right? If I help you, you’ll go and leave everything as it is?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you?” He looked at Ruth.

  “Of course. Guides’ promise.”

  He looked sceptical, but nodded. “Tiggi didn’t come back. We don’t know where she is. Probably on a yacht somewhere with her boyfriend.”

  “Does this boyfriend have a name?”

  “Must do. But I don’t know it. She never said. All I know is, she started talking about going away soon, when she had more money. Somewhere warm and nice, not like this place or home.” His mouth took a sour twist. “I think she has ambition, our Tiggi. Trouble is, her brains don’t match her looks, you know?” He snapped his fingers in thought. “She’s like a fine racehorse but can’t run for shit, you know what I mean?”

  “You sound bitter,” said Vaslik. “Did she leave you for this boyfriend?”

  Aron gave a rueful smile. “No, not me. I am not in her class. I am too settled for her. I work in a restaurant and that’s where I’m happy. Tiggi, though, she wants the world.” He spread his arms wide. “Trouble is, she don’t know the dangers out there.”

  “Why do you say that?” said Ruth.

  “Because she’s innocent—is that right—innocent?”

  “Naïve.”

  “OK. Better. Naïve. She think money is everything, will bring happiness and a good life.” He shrugged. “Maybe it will. But I don’t think so. Last time she came home, it was very late and she had a mark here.” He pointed at his face, just beneath one eye.

  “What happened?”

  “I ask her but she won’t say. I tell her if it’s her boyfriend, I’ll go round and deal with him but she goes mad and tells me to mind my business. She looked real scared. I tell you, there’s something not good going on there.”

  “You’re worried about her.”

  “Yes, I guess so. She’s a sweet girl, you know?” He blushed, the colour spreading across his crown as he revealed his true feelings. “But so damned naïve.”

  Love-struck, thought Ruth. She felt sorry for him. “We’d like to see her room.”

  Aron nodded. “Sure. I take you.” He adjusted the heat on the cooker, then gave rapid instructions to the other man, pointing at the pot and making a stirring gesture. “But slow, understand?” he said in English, for the visitors’ benefit. “Not like digging ditch. Slow. Or you don’t eat.”

  He led the way upstairs to the top of the house at the rear, where a dormer window looked out over the back gardens. The room was small, neat and tidy, plainly decorated but with a few frilly items showing that the owner was a girl with a taste for colour.

  “Nice,” said Ruth. “Are all the rooms like this?”

  He snorted. “You kidding, lady? The others, they live like rats, all together and lazy. Tiggi is the only woman and she pay more rent, so she get the best room.”

  “Doesn’t that pose problems, all those men and one woman?”

  He shook his head. “Never. They respect women or they have me to deal with.” He ducked his head. “Anyway, Tiggi has this look, you know?”

  “Look?” Vaslik.

  “Yeah. She a girl but she has a look like everyone know not to mess with her. I don’t know how she does that.”

  “It’s called confidence,” Ruth murmured, and moved over to check the wardrobe. “Trouble is, it shares room with being naïve, too. How long had she been here?”

  “About two months. She got my name from someone in the community and call round. Lucky I had the room empty, so she moved right in. What you look for exactly?”

  “Whatever will tell us,” said Vaslik, “where she might be. That’s all.”

  “Why is she in trouble with Immigration? She got papers, I know that. All legal.”

  “She’s not in trouble,” Ruth interjected. “But we think she’s mixed up with some bad people.” She dug out a card containing her number and handed it to him. “If you think of anything else or you hear from Tiggi, call me.”

  “Serious?”

  “Very.”

  He seemed to deflate, the air going out of him in a long sigh. “I knew it. I could have done more. I should have.” He said something at length in Polish, and looked sick.

  “What you’re already doing is plenty,” Vaslik murmured, and moved into the room. “Believe me. We’ll do our best to track her down.”

  It was Aron’s signal to leave. He nodded and walked back downstairs.

  twenty-eight

  Nancy came awake slowly, as if emerging from a sticky fog. Her mouth tasted stale and her head was spinning, bringing memories of long-ago hangovers at university, when restraint was simply a word in a dictionary. She struggled to move upright in the bed, for a moment unsure of her surroundings. Then she noted the familiar and the safe; the colours of home and the comforting silence. Even though mostly semi-conscious in the hospital, she had been all too aware of the constant rush of footsteps, of murmured voices and the clank and buzz of equipment.

  The clock by the bed read 11:45 am. She’d been asleep only a short while but if felt longer. She sat forward, allowing her head to settle. Something had penetrated her sleep, tugging her out of the chasm she’d fallen into, but she couldn’t pin it down. A sound. Something alien. Probably just a car outside.

  She closed her eyes again, allowing the darkness to envelope her.

  Beth.

  The memories came rushing in, and with them a surge of guilt. She sat up, engulfed by a wave of nausea. How could she have not remembered the second she opened her eyes? What kind of mother was she? She threw back the covers in irritation. She had to speak to Gina or Ruth … even the American, Vaslik. One of them might te
ll her if anything had happened. All she could remember was running a bath, then feeling overwhelmed by heat and humidity, and … nothing.

  She heard a low buzzing noise. Intermittent, it was coming in bursts from somewhere nearby. The sound was familiar; she remembered now. Like an angry bumble bee caught behind a net curtain. Softer, yet just as insistent.

  It came again, three short bursts, then silence. Not a bee. Something electronic.

  The dresser.

  She slid out of bed, putting on her slippers and pulling her dressing gown around her shoulders, waiting while the room tilted, then righted itself. Don’t move too fast. Take it easy.

  She stood up and took the three steps towards the dresser, instinct making her tread softly, one ear cocked for movement outside her bedroom door, which was closed.

  She pulled open the second drawer down. Her undies drawer as she called it. Her one indulgence whenever she could afford it, which wasn’t often.

  She burrowed down through the thin layers of silk and lace, and her fingers encountered something solid. She flicked aside a couple of folded bras and found the slim, glossy black shape of a cell phone.

  What?

  She took it out, the feel of the device strange, the balance lighter than her own phone, which was downstairs in the kitchen drawer. The screen was on and the message icon was blinking. She pressed the View key.

  It was from Michael.

  Her fingers began trembling so much she almost dropped the phone. She wasn’t sure if it was the journey from her bed to here or the excitement and relief of seeing his name, but she felt a rush of relief followed by a drumming in her head.

  The text message was simple:

  Text me at noon. Use a safe word that we both know to show you are alone and not under pressure. I need to know what is happening. I will explain everything. Delete all messages and hide this. M

  She slumped against the dresser, her legs going weak, and managed to get back to the bed where she fell back against the pillows. Her face was wet with silent tears and her head bursting with questions, wondering why Michael was communicating with her this way, so cold and disconnected. If he could text, why didn’t he call? Why didn’t he come home? She felt a burst of anger at the remoteness of his words, but pushed them down somewhere deep inside. Anger was pointless, she knew that. Michael called it a wasted emotion, and that hard resolve was so much better. She had never got round to asking him what that meant, adding it to the various topics they had never discussed fully during their years together, like the Safeguard contract. But that was for another time. As always, she trusted him implicitly, and felt guilty at her brief surge of doubt. For now she had to continue trusting him, knowing that he would do the right thing, and that they would eventually be safe—and together.

  She dried her eyes and face and checked the time. 11.55. Just five minutes to compose a text, but it wouldn’t take long. Considering she had no-one else to communicate with in this way, other than the regular and uniform messages to Michael, it was something at which she was fairly adept.

  She began pressing the keys, using alternate thumbs in a rapid-fire way to tell him what had happened so far, one ear cocked for Gina making one of her periodic checks. As she typed, she was thinking about a safe word to use; one that only she and Michael would know, and would fit into the text if an outsider saw it. Somehow she knew Michael would use one in return. She didn’t question why he was doing this, only that it was necessary because he said so. She looked around her bedroom, hoping for inspiration.

  Then she had it. Beth’s favourite teddy; it was sitting on the end of her bed.

  … you must be Homesick, she typed. The capital letter was deliberate, to catch the eye. Michael would see it and understand. She fastened on that thought, wiping away all other fears and doubts.

  Michael was alive and safe. That was all she needed to know. Everything would be fine now.

  The response from Michael came within twenty minutes, and Nancy felt elated by the simple words. Words of reassurance, of hope. Contact at last.

  He texted, “Don’t worry. They won’t harm her.”

  “They? Who they?” she responded.

  “Not sure. Best not trust anyone.”

  “Not Cruxys?”

  “No.”

  “But you said call them.”

  “Yes. Things have changed.”

  “Why Beth? I don’t understand.”

  “One day you will. For now you must stay strong. For Beth. For me. For us all. Delete this. M. x.”

  He was gone, the remoteness of his words burning into her brain. It hadn’t sounded like Michael, and she wondered if it was the need to conserve words that made him come across that way. She deleted the texts as instructed and switched off the phone. As she returned it to the drawer, slipping it beneath her underwear where it would be safe from discovery, it occurred to her that she hadn’t asked Michael how the device had got here. It hadn’t been in the drawer yesterday—of that she was certain. The thought made her flesh creep.

  Someone had been in their home.

  In this room.

  As Nancy slipped back beneath the covers and closed her eyes, a black 4WD entered the end of the street. It stopped at the kerb a hundred yards away, beyond the reach of the CCTV camera at the front, beyond Gina Fraser’s watchful eyes. The driver was on the phone, listening to instructions. After a few minutes, he did a three-point turn and disappeared back the way he had come.

  twenty-nine

  Carefully noting where everything lay to ensure they missed nothing, Vaslik and Ruth took Tiggi Sgornik’s room apart piece by piece. They lifted everything that could be moved, including the carpet, wardrobe and dresser; checked under the mattress, looking for slits in the fabric, signs that there had been repairs made, anything that might indicate a potential place of concealment. They emptied every drawer, checking the underneath, sides and backs, then moved on to the structure of the dresser and wardrobe, running their fingers across the wood for a trace of a raised or indented surface. They unscrewed the feet, looking for hollows or slots, the familiar hidey-holes for children, spies and those conducting illicit undertakings. Tiggi hadn’t owned much clothing, but they scoured every item, pants, skirts and shoes, testing heels and hems, lapels and pockets, looking for signs that a line of stitching had been opened and re-done.

  “She seems to have had money,” Vaslik commented sourly. He was staring at the clothing, which was going to have to go back where they had found it. Among it was the empty packaging from a cell phone. He picked it up and examined the labelling. It was a cheap pay-as-you-go model with no retailer’s marking. “Didn’t extend to her cell phone, though. Maybe cute only goes so far.”

  “You’re a cynic, Slik,” murmured Ruth. “But you’re right: I doubt it was her—not on a nanny’s pay. She’s a lucky girl.” She dropped the pair of fluffy slippers she’d been checking and sat on the bed with a sigh. “Are we done here?”

  He nodded, sure of himself. “I think so. If there’s anything, it’s in the fabric of the building and we’re not going to find it without using a pickaxe—and I don’t think we’d get that past the head chef downstairs.”

  Ruth was frustrated. She’d been certain they might find something here, even a sign that Michael Hardman had got something going with the nanny. At least it would have given them an avenue to explore. But this was nothing, leading nowhere. A big fat blank.

  Her phone buzzed. It was George Paperas.

  “I called a few more people,” he announced, meaning aid agencies. “Two more knew of Hardman, another two had engaged him—one in Pakistan, the other in the Maghreb, in Tunisia. This guy gets around. I’ve got him popping up in Somalia, Kenya, and Algeria, and a couple of other places. The agencies who knew him or could remember him all reported the same story: he worked with them for a few days, two weeks at most, then disappeared.
No explanations, just up and gone.”

  “How could he just move around like that? Don’t aid workers have accreditation or visas?”

  “It’s complicated. Yes, all humanitarian aid organisations and their staff should have official permission to work in a region like, say, Pakistan. Sometimes they don’t get it for local political reasons, sometimes safety. Each group would or should issue their staff with papers to identify them and their reasons for being there. But with the smaller ones, it’s not always followed to the letter. To be honest, there are one or two I’ve come across who don’t like the interference and simply want to get on with the job. I can sympathise with that; bureaucracy can get in the way of good deeds. But it’s a dangerous thing to do. Like the Christian fundamentalists who got caught distributing bibles in Moscow.”

  “Proselytizing.”

  “Sure. It was deliberate or stupid, depending on your point of view. But with agency work, having no papers can get you suspected of being there for reasons other than humanitarian help. And in some of the remoter areas, no papers means you won’t be missed if they decide they don’t like your face.”

  Ruth felt her neck go cold. “They’d kill them?”

  “Yes. It’s happened, believe me.”

  On the wall across from the bed was an alpine scene showing a distant rock-face capped by snow and edged by cliffs of granite reaching into the sky. Ruth presumed it was somewhere that reminded Tiggi of home, but it prompted a thought about something Paperas had said in his last phone call about Hardman.

  “You said that when Hardman was with Oxfam he’d been driving trucks close to the border near Peshawar. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “How close?” She didn’t know what prompted the question, but the sight of mountain passes in the picture must have jogged her thought processes.

  “Pretty close, if I remember the terrain. If he was delivering supplies, he’d have been pretty much on his own for long periods, and it’s not as if he would have been monitored closely by security forces unless he hit a road block. Aid trucks are common, and they’re more interested in looking for small groups or individuals travelling at odd hours of the day or night.”