The Locker (16 page)

thirty-one

Vaslik followed Ruth up
to the house, where Gina was waiting to let them in. He nodded at the former police bodyguard as Ruth went directly to the living room. He could see Nancy waiting for them, pacing up and down. Her movements seemed unnaturally jagged, and her eyes far too animated to be normal. When she smiled it was fleetingly bright but lacking depth, like a child trying to fool an adult that all was well when it really wasn't.

“What's with her?” he asked softly.

“Search me,” Gina replied. “She's been like it since lunchtime; up and down like a hooker's drawers. It's like she's pissed. I'd have checked the booze stash but she doesn't have one.”

He'd seen it before in relatives of kidnap cases in the US. The effect of the abduction of a loved one on the nerves was bad enough; the addition of prescription drugs plus whatever else the family had in their bathroom cabinets was generally enough to send them up and down like an express elevator, varying from dulled torpor to freaky bursts of activity and near manic anxiety levels.

He left them to it and ran a security check of the doors, windows and back gate, watched with amused detachment by Gina. He knew she would have been over this already, but it was something he had to do for his own peace of mind. In any case, she would have done the same had their roles been reversed. It was what made them pros in their business.

He ran another check for further listening devices but found nothing. They were there, though, he was certain of it; like woodworm in an ancient staircase. This worried him from two standpoints: the watchers, whoever they were, must know by now who was in the house and what they were—even who they worked for. But there was nothing he could do about that beyond being careful of what was said aloud. More worrying was that whoever had installed the bugs had access to technical facilities way beyond the norm. He h
ad been allowed to find the easy ones, the decoys, but the rest, the ones he hadn't seen, would be undetectable without scanning equipment. And that took resources he could only guess at.

Back in the kitchen, he turned on the kettle and said, “I have to go out.”

“Again?” Ruth was in the doorway. She gave him a quizzical look before waving him away. “Sorry. I'm being Mother Hen. Do what you have to. I'm going to make a report to Aston about what George Paperas told us. Then I'm going to talk to Nancy and see if there's anything else I can find out about our mysterious aid worker with the ability to cross borders.”

“Good luck with that,” Gina muttered. “Whatever she's high on, I wish I had some.”

Vaslik exited through the back gate. He walked round to the supermarket where he had seen the near-confrontation the day before, and found a corner table in the cafeteria. It was quiet; a trio of utility workers in fluorescent jackets and boots, two mothers with small children and a waitress cleaning tables with a marked lack of enthusiasm. While deserted enough for him to have a corner table away from the others, there was just enough noise to cloak the conversation he was planning. He bought a mug of coffee and sat staring at his cell phone on the table, and chewing over what he knew so far and how that impacted on what he was about to do. He was concerned about the events of the past few hours, especially the topic of Ruth's conversation with George Paperas. That had taken an unexpected turn, and something he hadn't been ready for.

He was surprised by Ruth's doggedness, and the way she was able to stitch ideas together from very little. He'd seen it before in professional investigators, but usually those with vastly more experience and training. They'd take what seemed a slanted view of evidence or events, and out of nothing, formulate an idea that had been missed by others … and which usually turned out correct. Ruth didn't have the long experience, but she certainly had a natural talent for lateral thinking.

Which might be a problem.

For example the napkin he'd found at the house along the road; she had noticed it, he was sure, probably recognised it, too. Maybe not instantly, but that was why he'd removed it: out of sight, out of mind. But it would come to her sooner or later. And if it meant what he thought it did—and if she came to the same conclusion—then it would only be a matter of time before the questions began. And he could see no way of avoiding them save for playing dumb. And that would only work for so long.

He picked up the cell phone and wondered what the hell he was doing. Why was he even thinking about whether Ruth might be a problem or not? They were colleagues, for God's sake, tasked with working on the same assignment. What did he owe to anyone outside this immediate job, save a questionable loyalty?

He checked the contacts list. The number he selected was buried deep among
home-based
details, like his dentist and lawyer. The kind of stuff nobody would bother looking at. It was a number he'd been given shortly after arriving in London, with instructions that he should only call in if completely unavoidable.

The number had the Washington dial code 202.

Screw unavoidable, he thought sourly. This was a car wreck waiting to happen…

The number, which he figured would be a
twenty-four
-hour government switchboard, rang out ten times before it was picked up.

“It's Vaslik,” he said simply, when a woman's voice answered. “I need to talk.”

“Wait one.” The woman sounded calm, almost casual. East coast, he guessed, possibly Virginia or round there. He had an ear for accents. “We'll get back to you.”

“Hold on—” He wanted to explain, but the woman had gone. She hadn't asked for his number.

He dropped the phone on the table and sat waiting, feeling uneasy. His caller details would have shown up on the
read-out
display as a matter of course. But that wasn't how the woman would know where to call him back; they had the number on file and the moment he rang in, a data file was activated giving his name, background and every little detail down to the size of his shorts. Big government in action; it was
high-tech
and improbable to most ordinary citizens, but scary to those who really knew what went on in the name of national security.

Five minutes trickled by, then ten. He developed an itch in his back. That was a bad sign; it meant whatever instinctive antennae he'd been born with to warn against hunters had kicked in. It had served him well enough in the past, and he wasn't about to ignore it. The landscape here might be different from New York, but the predators and prey were the same the world over.

He finished his coffee and picked up his phone, and left the supermarket. He had no destination in mind but continued movement was better than being static. It would help pass the time and keep him off whatever radar might be tracking him. He wasn't familiar enough with the communications infrastructure in London to know if the locations of towers was sufficiently dense to triangulate his position quickly; but one thing he was sure of was that his call to Washington just now would have been pinged and added to an automatic trace log. At this moment a duty officer was probably checking out a map of London and trying to work out his precise location. To do that, they would need another connection with his phone.

It rang.

“Mr. Vaslik.” The voice was male, heavy with authority, vaguely familiar, with a southern drawl. A voice accustomed to command. A voice he was surprised to realise he'd heard somewhere before. “You were told to watch and wait. To be ready to assist.”

“I know.” He took a deep breath, wondering why he knew that voice, then said, “Something's going on here … something I believe is potentially outside my control.”

“How so?”

“I was told to stand by … to assist if called. It sounded like something specific might happen, maybe to do with national security. But I wasn't told what that was. I still don't know.”

“Because you don't necessarily need to know.” The man sounded impatient, as if talking to a child—or a junior officer pushing his head above his pay grade. “Are you mobile, Mr. Vaslik?”

“Yes, why?”

“No reason. Perhaps you could explain why you have called?”

“I need to know … there are plenty of specialists already here who could do whatever is necessary, without involving me. “I'm a private contractor now, and my scope of activities and experience is narrow. I'm no longer in DHS.”

“So?”

“Is there a child involved in whatever's going to happen?”

There. It was out.

The line clicked and hissed, and the man on the other end said nothing. Vaslik became aware of a noise overhead. He looked up. Saw a shape in the distance. A helicopter, swinging towards him, too high to distinguish any markings, merely a
dragon-fly
shape against the clouds. A coincidence, he told himself. No way they could have locked onto him this fast
and
got a chopper in the air. But he started walking again as a precaution.

“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 exchange 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.