“Why do you ask?” the man said. He didn’t question, Vaslik noted with a sinking feeling, what child.
“Because it’s the only thing I’ve come across so far that could have a bearing on US security.”
“What makes you say that?”
“There are certain … familiarities involved.”
“Be specific.”
“Methods. Language … and some hard evidence.” He said the last word with a feeling of uncertainty. What he had was suspicions and nothing more. And he didn’t like what he was coming up with. The problem was, he knew Ruth Gonzales had the same suspicions. She hadn’t said anything, but he was beginning to know the way her mind worked. Armed with the same information as himself, she would soon arrive at the same conclusions. If she hadn’t already.
“Evidence?”
“Trace material. The assignment I’m working on: somebody’s got us and the house we’re in under close surveillance. The technology involved is state of the art. But they got careless.” The helicopter was moving away, and he kept his eye on it until it disappeared over the horizon. Then he changed direction and headed back towards the Hardman place. He’d been on too long already, but the call had been necessary.
“What do you expect from me?”
“I wish I knew. What I’m dealing with here is a missing child and a kidnap note. It’s nothing new and I’ve seen this stuff before in my old job. But I have a gut feel that there’s more to this than it seems. It’s too complicated to be a simple kidnap; there’s been no demands, no ransom figure … only that the father of the child be told. And that’s proving a problem.” He struggled to avoid saying too much. If he really voiced what he was thinking, it could all fold around his ears like a collapsing tent. “If this is what I’ve been expected to look out for and there’s any information I can use to solve this, I’d like to find this little girl. But I have to know who else is involved.”
“Else?”
“Government agencies … or others.”
Another short silence, then, “Have you shared these thoughts?”
“No. Well, sort of. My problem is, somebody—my local partner here—saw the material and I think she’ll eventually put two and two together. She’s pretty smart.”
“Her name?”
“Ruth Gonzales—” He stopped, wondering why he’d given up Ruth’s name so easily. But it was too late; it was already out. Not that it would take this man more than a single phone call to know who he was working with here in London. He would have the kind of reach that could traverse borders with ease.
“Are you suggesting,” the man queried, “the situation might be compromised?” His voice lingered almost affectionately on the last syllable, as if reluctant to let it go.
Vaslik stopped walking. The question was unexpected, and surprising. He’d been waiting for some direction, maybe to be told that he would not be required, or that he might be peripherally witness to something that he might be able to help stop, and therefore to continue working on it. That was what he’d been hoping for. Yet all he could think of was that the words “the situation” uttered by the man on the other end of the phone could so easily be interchanged with the word ”we.”
We might be compromised. Damn. Now he really was confused. This business had him questioning everything; every small nuance of conversation, every potential hidden meaning.
“I don’t understand.”
“No, you do not. Maintain your position, Mr. Vaslik and do nothing. We’ll be in touch.” There was a click and the man was gone.
thirty-two
Ruth’s chat with Nancy proved fruitless. In spite of approaching the topic of Michael with extra care, in view of her collapse, she got nothing from her other than an almost dreamy look of restrained excitement, followed by a volley of questions about why they weren’t doing more to find Beth and how sitting around the house interrogating her was less than useless.
“You seem brighter,” Ruth commented dryly at one point. “Those pills must be amazing.” She didn’t know if mentioning the prescription was a bad idea or not, but right now she didn’t care. Nancy Hardman was going up and down the scale of emotions like Tigger on a moon rocket; one minute half-asleep and passive, the next like a kid who’d been told they were all going to Disney World.
She finally gave up and went in search of Gina. “Has she been taking anything other than the prescribed meds?”
“I don’t know. She’s been like this for a while. She was watching television earlier and laughing at a shopping channel. I mean, really laughing. I thought she was going to throw up. It’s freaky, if you ask me.”
It definitely wasn’t good. “It means she’s going to crash at some point. You’d better keep an eye out for it and hide all sharp objects.”
“Will do.”
Ruth checked her watch and decided not to wait for Vaslik to return. She needed to get out and do something positive. After checking Gina was OK by herself, she set off for the gym with a print of the mysterious Clarisse in her pocket.
She wondered what Vaslik was up to. He had every right to his privacy, she wasn’t concerned with that. But this was the second time he’d gone off on some unspecified business, and although the first—going for a second look at the house at No. 38—had proved useful, if not exactly revealing, she was concerned that he might be getting bored with this job. So far he had shown no inclination for anything other than the task in hand, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t preoccupied by something outside the narrow world of Cruxys and its client base.
And there was a comment he’d made earlier that was bothering her. She couldn’t remember the exact words or at what point he’d said them, but it wasn’t long ago, possibly on the way back to the house after visiting Tiggi Sgornik’s address. Something about it had pinged a bell in her mind at the time, then was gone again just as quickly. She should have paid more attention.
She pulled into the car park at the gym and cut the engine. Few of the spaces were occupied, and she guessed it was the afternoon lull in activity. She walked inside and saw the receptionist with the inflatable chest was on duty again. This time she was wearing a badge pinned to one breast that read “Laura.”
“I’d like to speak to Robert Curlow,” she said, dredging the manager’s name from what Aston had told her.
“Is it a complaint?” The receptionist made no move to pick up the phone, but stood blinking in anticipation, eyelashes flapping like a dying bird’s wings.
“Not yet.” Ruth dropped the smile until the girl got the message and hustled away to fetch the manager. He turned out to be a poor advertisement for a fitness regime, carrying too much weight and the pasty look of a couch loafer.
“How can I help?” he greeted her.
“You’ve heard of Godfrey Leander?”
He blinked immediately and looked nervous. “Of course. He’s a member of the management board.” Then he got the connection. “Ah, right. He said somebody might call round.”
“Good. Can we speak in private?” She didn’t want the receptionist listening in, just in case the woman named Clarisse was still around.
“Sure. If you could go through the gate and down the corridor?” He pressed the gate button and disappeared, and Ruth met him down by the lockers. He led her into the interview room, which held two comfortable armchairs and a coffee table.
Ruth handed him the still photograph of the woman turning away from the locker.
“Do you know this woman?”
He studied it and nodded straightaway. “Yes. It’s Helen Stephenson. She’s a part-time admin worker here.” He frowned. “Is something wrong? Has there been a complaint?”
She ignored the question. “How long has she worked here?”
“Not long. About four weeks. But she’s been coming as a client a little longer. She stopped me one day and said she’d work in ex
change for free sessions.” He shrugged. “I wouldn’t normally be allowed to do it, not with all the employment rules and regulations, but our usual admin lady is off having a baby so I agreed. It was win-win, really.” He looked pleased with himself for a moment, then frowned. “What’s the problem?”
“I’ll get to that. As an admin worker, would she have had access to the CCTV system?” Ruth was puzzled as to why the woman’s image was still on the hard drive. If she had really placed the card in the locker with such precision, ignoring the CCTV showed a degree of carelessness that didn’t quite match up. Unless Stephenson knew she wasn’t going to be around long enough for it to matter.
“No chance. It’s in a secure cupboard and she wasn’t authorised. I’m the only key holder—I already told Mr. Leander that. Why, what has she done?”
“Nothing to reflect on you.”
“Will I get into trouble for taking her on?”
“I don’t know. Do you have an address for her?”
He flushed and looked down at his feet. “I’m afraid not. I mean, I did have, but it’s been mislaid. I can’t recall what it was, I’m sorry.”
“How do you know it’s been mislaid?”
“Because she hasn’t turned up for work or for any sessions and I wanted to find out why. I checked the file but it was empty. Has something happened to her?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
Curlow’s face folded in on itself as he drew the obvious conclusion. “Oh, Jesus … did she steal from the lockers—is that what this is about? Is that why they wanted the CCTV footage? Only I swear I didn’t know—”
“She didn’t.” Ruth stopped his rush of words with a raised hand. “The only thing she took was her address details from your files … although I think you’ll find they were false, anyway. And you might need to get your story straight about how you took her on. This could get messy. Did she mix with anybody while she was here? Other staff or clients?”
“No. At least, I don’t think so. She seemed friendly enough with everybody, but …”
“But what?”
“You can never tell, can you? About people.”
She left him staring into the distance, no doubt contemplating how long his job was going to last, and walked back to reception. Laura was entering data on the computer, her fingernails clacking on the keys like a volley of brittle hammers.
Ruth asked her, “I don’t suppose you know where Helen Stephenson lives, do you?”
The response was immediate and cold. “That nasty bitch? No. Good riddance, is all I can say.”
“Why, what did she do?”
A shrug shifted the white uniform with a crackle of static. “I don’t want to say.”
“Please yourself. I’ll ask Robert.” She began to turn back and Laura’s mouth dropped open in alarm. She held out a hand.
“No, wait. He doesn’t know. You’ll get him in trouble.”
“Who, Robert?”
“No. Andrew—one of our instructors. Helen was strutting around like she was queen bee and getting all flirty with him, asking him to show her the ropes and going gaga at the equipment.” Her face twisted. “Like she’d never seen the inside of a fitness studio before! God, it was sickening. Anyway, Andrew got the wrong message and thought he was in there.”
“What happened?”
“She kicked his arse.”
“What?”
“I mean, seriously. It was bad—he had to go to A&E. He told Curlow he’d fallen off one of the machines.” Her face flushed. “He’s a nice bloke, Andrew … he just likes to chat to the clients, that’s all. Nothing wrong with that, is there?”
“Sounds like Helen Stephenson wouldn’t agree with you. Did anybody witness the assault?”
“No. It was in an upstairs corridor—no CCTV coverage. Anyway, it was all over too quickly, he said.”
“Did he report it?”
“You’re kidding, aren’t you? I think he was too embarrassed, her being a woman and all.”
“What kind of work does this Andrew do?”
“General fitness and self defence … and karate. He’s a black belt.” She appeared not to see any irony in the fact.
“Yet she took him apart?”
“Yes. He reckoned she knew some awesome stuff. Psycho bitch.”
Ruth was intrigued, although she fought back the temptation to waste time going down a blind alley. But what if that was the only one she had? “I’d like to have a word. Where can I get hold of him?”
Seconds later she was back outside with a phone number and address for the damaged karate instructor. He lived not more than five minutes’ drive away, so she went straight round there, determined to strike while the idea was hot.
thirty-three
The man who answered the door was in his mid-twenties, lean but muscular, with gelled hair. He wore tracksuit pants and a T-shirt, and was walking with difficulty. One of his hands was heavily taped with a splint across two of the fingers.
“Andrew?”
“Who wants him?” He gave Ruth a quick body scan, eyes hovering for a moment on her chest. If this was him, she decided, being beaten up by a woman hadn’t exactly put a crease in his libido.
She introduced herself and explained why she was there.
He held the door open. “Great. So now the whole world knows. You’d better come in.” He led her into a cluttered sitting room and said, “Sorry for the mess. I’ve got a mate crashing in here for a few days.” He lowered himself into an armchair with a grunt. “Excuse me if I don’t stand—my knee’s killing me.” He lifted one trouser leg to reveal a heavy bandage around his knee, then sat back with a groan.
“Just the knee?”
“I wish. I’ve got two busted fingers and a stack of bruising.” He indicated his stomach. “Why do you want to know?”
“Let’s say the woman who attacked you has form. I’d like to find her.” She showed him the print of Clarisse. “Is this her?”
He gave it a quick look. “Yeah, that’s Helen—mad bitch. Sorry … not PC, but I think I’ve got good reason, don’t you?”
“You wouldn’t know her address, I suppose?”
“No chance. I hear she’s bunked off. If you do find her, give her a kick for me, would you? Only be careful, she’s vicious.”
Ruth sat down in another chair. “Your receptionist friend said something about her knowing some awesome stuff. What does that mean?”
He shifted in his chair and winced. “You talked to Laura.”
“Yes. She’s concerned about you.”
He smiled. “She’s a nice kid. Have you ever heard of Krav Maga?”
“Isn’t that an Israeli army martial art?”
“Yeah. I started learning it a few years ago. It’s a mix of styles but I recognised some of the moves. It’s based on going in with maximum force and neutralising an attacker. She took me down with a kick to the side of my knee and some other strikes … I don’t remember the rest.” He sounded almost in awe. “Man, she was so fast. Like a tornado.”
“Sounds like she was angry.”
“Yes—but I never laid a finger on her. If she says different, she’s lying.” He looked resentful and defensive. “I tried a couple of cheesy lines on her, that’s all. It was nothing to go all ballistic over.”
“That’s it? Are you sure? You didn’t touch her at all?”
He hesitated, then confessed, “I might have touched her arm. To be honest, I don’t remember much about it.”
“Only touched her arm? And you teach self-defence?”
“OK, stroked her arm. Maybe. I don’t remember. It was stupid, I know … but she seemed friendly, even a bit flirty, asking me to help find her way round the centre and point out who some of the clients were. I made a mistake.” He scowled like a little boy robbed of his lunch mo
ney.
“Some mistake. Did she ask about anybody in particular?”
He frowned. “I don’t think so. Women, mostly, like she might have been looking for gym buddies. But I honestly don’t remember.”
“And that was it? She didn’t say anything before or after?” She felt frustrated; this was going nowhere fast.
He shrugged. “I guess. I mean, there was something she said just before she started in on me.” Another frown, this time in concentration. “But I don’t remember what it was. What exactly has this chick done?”
Ruth ignored the question and took out a card printed with her cell phone number. “If what she said comes back, give me a call. It might be important.”
He studied the card and gave her a crooked smile, suddenly all buoyed up, his ego bouncing to the fore. “Sure will. It’s Ruth, right? Ruth what?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Huh?”
“Don’t let your libido carry you away or I’ll come back and finish what she started. My advice is, stick closer to home—like Laura, for instance. She’s much more your style.”
He looked hurt. “Hey, touchy. I get the message.”
Ruth stood up. “Good. And next time don’t let them get in so close—especially women; we fight dirty.”
He scowled. “You know martial arts, right?” This time his assessment was more professional, less lascivious. “Yeah, you look like |you do.”
“You better believe it.”
She let herself out.
As she got back to the car, her phone buzzed. She didn’t recognise the number.
It was Aron, Tiggi’s landlord. He sounded worried, even sad.
“You should come here now,” he said. “I think maybe Tiggi is not coming back.”
The Locker Page 17
