The Locker (10 page)

seventeen

Nancy Hardman lay in
bed, staring into the dark and listening to the sounds of the house; the ticking pipes, the settling brickwork, the soft fluttering of a bird in the eaves above her window. Further away was the familiar low buzz of traffic or an occasional emergency siren, a melancholy wail in the night. The after-hours tunes of any big city, at times both comforting and disturbing.

Only now there was another sound she was trying to cope with, this one inside the house: the movement from the three strangers sent to look after her. Endlessly prowling as they checked windows and doors and the camera monitors, they seemed to operate on some hidden reserves of calm certainty, yet were clearly keyed up to counter any threat that might present itself.

She listened as Gina moved into the spare room and lay down on the bed, followed by the click of the light switch. It reminded her body that she was tired herself, but she knew sleep wouldn't come that easily now the effects of the pill she had taken were wearing off.

She turned on her side. Her skin was itching with restless energy and her brain moving at a lightning pace, a stuttering gallery of thoughts and images like a newsreel in
fast-forward
. Fear and anxiety for Beth were uppermost, but closely followed by questions about Michael. Where was he right now? What he was doing?

She pulled the duvet around her and wondered what he would say if she told him about the sleeping pill.
If?
The notion that she might not tell him almost frightened her, filling her with a strange feeling of rebellion. She couldn't
not
tell him; theirs was a relationship built on absolute trust, a faith in each other stronger than anything she'd ever seen between other couples. Not confiding everything that was important would be like a betrayal.

If only she could speak to him.

She flung aside the duvet, suddenly too hot, too agitated, her chest beaded with perspiration. The message; she had to send him the usual message. He had always insisted that she text him at least every two or three days, to let him know all was well. Even if the messages failed to arrive, it was a habit he had insisted she followed to let him know everything was good. And she had done so ever since. The idea that she might need that contact just as much as he had never been voiced, but she had welcomed at least the chance that he might see one of her messages and respond from whatever
far-flung
corner of the world he was in.

She slid from her bed and put on her dressing gown, then padded to the bedroom door. Stood and listened. No sounds, no creaks from up here. Nothing from downstairs, either, but she knew they were there.

She moved to the stairs and walked down, nerves making her jumpy at the thought of a confrontation. She reached the bottom step and paused. Still no noise; just the soft, flickering light from the camera monitors bouncing off the walls and ceilings. She moved in line with the living room door and stopped, her heart jumping.

Gonzales was watching her from an armchair in the darkened room. She was unmoving, her face a pale blob.

“Problem?” Her voice was soft, probing. She sounded fully alert and Nancy wondered how any of them did this work, constantly ready for anything.

“I couldn't sleep. I need some soda.” There was a bottle in the fridge, the household beverage of choice and Michael's favourite. Beth's too, only she liked hers flat.

Gonzales didn't move to stop her so Nancy stepped into the kitchen. Vaslik was standing by the back door. He gave a nod and walked out holding a flashlight, and she heard him going upstairs.

She opened the fridge. The door shielded her from Gonzales's view. She slid open the drawer next to the fridge and saw her cell phone lying there. She found a glass and poured a drink, taking a long pull before putting the glass down to refill it. As she replaced the bottle in the fridge door she reached out with her other hand and took out the phone, dropping it into her dressing gown pocket.

She was surprised how easy she found it, slipping into the role of … what was she—a conspirator? Was it really this simple, a case of them and us? She swallowed hard and closed the fridge door. Moved back towards the stairs.

“Aren't you forgetting something?” Gonzales's voice floated through the dark.

“I don't think so.” Nancy felt another skip of her heart.
She'd been seen.

“Your soda. Might as well take it with you, don't you think?”

She went back for the glass, cursing under her breath. The bloody woman didn't miss a thing. Had she seen her pocket the phone? Was that the next thing to bring her up on?

She walked back upstairs, shoulders straight, feeling faint with an overwhelming rush of … was it adrenaline? Fear? Excitement? Whatever it was, she found it quietly exhilarating. She went into her bedroom and
half-closed
the door, waiting a moment to see if Vaslik would appear, alerted by her approach.

No movement. She had to move quickly, in case Gonzales had realised what she was doing. She closed the door and switched off the light, then put down the glass and powered up the phone. The message wouldn't take long; she had perfected the sentence over the months and could do it in the dark.

We're here. We're well. We're missing you.

It wasn't romantic, as far as messages between husband and wife went; nor was it accurate. But Michael would know that it meant she and Beth were with him, body and spirit. She deliberately hadn't mentioned Beth again; she had done that already. Reminding Michael that their daughter was missing was enough. He would respond if he could, she was certain.

She pressed SEND and silently wished the words on their way, hoping that somewhere, in some dark corner of the world, Michael would see them and respond. Once done, she deleted the message.

Moments later she was back downstairs, placing the glass in the sink and slipping the phone back in the drawer.

She was aware of Gonzales watching her walk past the doorway, but nothing was said.

Ruth debated going after Nancy, but put her inability to sleep down to trauma. The walk down the stairs and back up again probably helped calm her down. She did a tour of the ground floor instead, checking windows and doors, standing for a while to watch the road outside.

A fox trotted out from a driveway fifty yards away and stopped, oblivious to the pool of street light overhead, confident in its urban surroundings. It sniffed the air, head switching from left to right, then turned and ran up the centre of the road, unhurried and graceful, before disappearing into deep shadow.

She went into the kitchen and stood for a while checking the monitors. The images were sharp and clear, the only movement coming from a neighbourhood cat grooming itself in the back garden, and a hedgehog trundling past just a couple of feet away. The animals ignored each other,
night-time
regulars secure in their routine and unthreatened.

She went out into the hallway and heard a faint rasp of breathing coming from the study. Vaslik, showing his independence by eschewing the sofa over the more Spartan leather club chair.

She returned to the living room and sat down. Closed her eyes.

And was jerked instantly awake by the jangle of a telephone.

It was the landline on the table at her elbow.

She snatched it up and remembered to hold the mouthpiece away from her lips before answering.

“Yes?” She uttered the single word in a rush as if dragged from reluctant sleep, the sound not long enough for anyone to determine who was speaking, only that it was a woman and hopefully, Nancy.

“Tell your husband.” The voice was male, harsh and clearly disguised, with no clue to accent or inflection.

It was uttering the last line from the kidnap note.

It was them.

“I don't understand.” She allowed her voice to break and rise in pitch as they would expect.
‘Who are you? Why are you doing this?'
” She watched the doorway to the hall, hoping Nancy hadn't heard. If whoever was doing this was to be convinced that the police weren't involved, she had to come across like a terrorised, frantic mother.

It worked.

“Tell your husband. Tell him.” The voice was insistent but showed no signs of suspicion.

“Where's my daughter?”

The caller rang off.

“Them?” Vaslik was in the doorway, speaking softly, fully alert. He checked the curtains were pulled tight before switching on the light. If the kidnappers were close enough, it would be the expected reaction; a need to see familiar things, to come out of the dark.

“One of them.”

Behind Vaslik, Gina was a darker shadow, moving quickly down the stairs in her bare feet.

Ruth waited until Gina joined them before repeating what the man had said. “That seems to be their main message, don't you think? They want the husband.”

eighteen

Gina was up and
patrolling the house when Ruth got in from a short walk at eight the next morning. The former bodyguard met her at the back door, glancing hungrily at a bag of croissants Ruth had bought at the supermarket bakery.

“Yum. I could eat that lot myself.”

“Anything doing?” Ruth put the croissants in the microwave for a quick zap while Vaslik stirred and went off to do a visual check of the perimeter. Somehow instinct had allowed them all to snatch a few minutes with their heads down when they needed it, but none had had a full four hours.

“Not a peep. A few cars have come and gone but none that shouldn't be here as far as I can tell.”

“Did Nancy wake up?” Ruth dusted off her hands and sniffed the air appreciatively. “Can I smell coffee?”

“Yes, you can and yes, she did. She's in the shower. She was up and about in her room a couple of times, but in between I checked on her and she was
spark-out
.”

Ruth nodded. “I tried talking to her when she was up but she didn't seem too interested. In the end I left her to it. Did she say anything to you about our talk last night?”

“Only that you'd got a bit personal. I told her we had to talk about this stuff because it might help find out who had an interest in Michael. Find who that is and we find Beth. She seemed OK after that.” Gina poured coffee all round and helped herself to a croissant, wolfing it down. “I've seen this
up-down
reaction before, though: I think she's a little
stir-crazy
. Not surprising with her daughter missing, but she asked me for more pills. I said no and she called me a mean bitch.”

Ruth wasn't surprised. Nancy had looked fragile enough yesterday; now Gina was withholding the sweeties she'd introduced her to, she was feeling resentful towards her.

“I'm going to call the company medic to check her over.” Cruxys had a consultant on tap for emergencies, and he would make sure she was holding up and prescribe pills if necessary. Whether Nancy would go along with it was something else, but they couldn't allow her to fall apart without trying to do something to prevent it.

“Take her shopping.” Vaslik had returned without them hearing him. He picked up a croissant and sipped his coffee. When he saw them staring at him he explained, “The ones left behind are the most stressed in these situations. Looking at four walls while waiting for news is almost the worst thing they can do; it's like their brains go into
free-fall
. We need to break the spell, allow her to breathe.” He gestured with his croissant at the large fridge in the corner. “She won't agree to go, but I'm pretty sure there's stuff she needs, anyway. It'll do her good.”

Ruth agreed. “Good idea—if we can get her out. She won't go willingly; she'll be frightened of missing a call. Frightened of being a target herself, too.”

“Quite possibly.” He looked at her. “That's why Gina should go with her and you should stay here. She trusts you more than us and to anybody watching, Gina looks more like a friend than a cop.”

“Gee, thanks. What will you be doing, hot shot?”

He gave a smile and swallowed the last of his croissant. “Me? I'll be ghosting along in the background, watching for anybody taking too close an interest.”

Gina looked intrigued. “You think that's likely?”

“I'd bet on it. Kidnappers never fail to watch for a reaction after the event. It's part of what they do. No reaction and they've already lost the initiative. It means they've got to come out from cover to stir things up. They don't like doing that.”

“Does that ever happen—where people don't react?”

“I've seen it two or three times. A family isn't that close or the victim's colleagues don't care enough to do anything—end of game. Admittedly, the people involved aren't exactly normal, you understand, so that explains a lot.”

“And here?”

“They're watching.” He nodded towards the front of the house. “Every time I go near the windows I get the feeling we're under observation.”

“Have you seen anything?” Gina looked sceptical.

“No. But I've experienced it too many times to be imagining things. I can't prove it but I'd like to give it a try.”

“You want to bring them out?” Ruth looked intrigued.

“Why not? It's better than sitting here waiting for them to pull the strings, don't you think? Stay local, though.”

Neither of them argued with that.

Ruth watched as Gina and Nancy left the house. It was just after eight. They had had a hard time convincing Nancy that it was OK to go out and that the fresh air would do her good. Most of all they had stressed that it was safe for her to be away from the house and leave Ruth behind to watch over things. They would only be a short distance and a phone call away if anything happened.

She finally gave in and put on her coat and shoes. The plan was simple: to go to the nearest supermarket, a large building where they could walk around without attracting attention but where Vaslik could keep an eye on them from a distance. If anybody did latch onto them, he would soon know it.

Ruth felt an instant loss of control as the two women walked away down the street and Vaslik exited via the rear gate. It was a familiar feeling from previous assignments, signalling a disconnection from the main players of an event while the pieces on the chessboard were moving into position. Gina was at the end of a phone, but it still meant the two women could be dangerously exposed and beyond her immediate reach. It was a feeling she would have to get used to.

She opened her laptop and called up a map of the area, then switched to Street Map so she could see the same picture that they would see. It wasn't very up to date and the traffic and weather conditions wouldn't be the same, but it gave her something on which to focus, as if she was moving along with them and sharing the route.

With the house empty, time seemed to pass grindingly slowly. She made coffee, resisted another croissant, did a tour of the rooms and constantly eyeballed the monitors. She resisted the temptation to call Slik for an update. If he had something, he'd call, she knew it.

There was a knock at the door.

She went to the front window, which gave a narrow view of visitors. It was a woman, dressed in jeans and a baggy jumper, hair scrunched out of sight beneath a gaudy
yellow-and
-mauve beanie cap. She wore heavy glasses balanced on her nose and she kept touching them with her forefinger and brushing her face. She was holding a couple of magazines in her other hand.

Neighbour, thought Ruth. Coffee and chat call? Somehow she couldn't see Nancy in the chat or
sugar-lending
category.

She shrugged off her jacket and stepped into the kitchen, picking up a tea towel and a mug as props, then went to the front door and opened it.

“Hi, Nancy—” the woman began with a bright smile. Then her face changed when she saw Ruth. “Oh, sorry. I was expecting … Is Nancy in?” She had the faintest American intonation, Ruth noted, overlaid with something she couldn't quite place. A displaced foreigner too long away from home, she guessed.

“Not right now. She's just gone to the supermarket to get some
cakes. I told her she shouldn't bother but she said she needed some fresh air, too. Can I help?” She peered at the cup and rubbed it with the tea towel, then shrugged. “How do you get tea stains out? I hate yellow patches on crockery—it's like nicotine fingers.”

“I don't know.” The woman looked slightly perplexed. “Umm …I'm a neighbour—Clarisse—from up the street. No. 38. I haven't seen Nancy for a couple of days so I thought it was time we caught up and did some girlie things. Are you local, too, uh … ?

“Ruth. No. I'm a friend from school. I finally decided it was time to come and say hello again. I think I might have interrupted her gym visits today. Not that she needs it, the
slim-line
bitch.” She waved a hand at the woman's frown. “It's OK—we talk about each other like that all the time; we've been friends too long to take offence.”

“Of course.” Clarisse gave a weak smile and moved away. “I'd better get back. Let her know I called, will you, and I'll come round another day. We can do lunch, maybe.”

“I'll do that.”

Ruth moved back into the front room and watched the woman walk along the street and turn into a house several doors up. She had the springy walk of an athlete, proving that gym visits worked for some people. But hell, Ruth thought sourly, don't they have better things to do?

Moments later Clarisse appeared again, this time pulling on a coat. She walked along the street, head down and collar up, and turned the corner out of sight. She looked as if she was in a hurry to get somewhere, and Ruth wondered why.