The Locker (2 page)

two

The door flew back
under the palm of her hand and slammed against the inside wall, the glass panel rattling in the frame. She forced herself to breathe, the sound echoing hoarsely in the empty hallway.

“Beth? Tiggi!”

The words fell on empty air. There was nothing, save the flat, dull sound of a deserted building, devoid of human warmth, of movement, of the welcome vibration of living beings.

Her throat closed,
tinder-dry
, and she raced through to the kitchen.

Empty. Breakfast dishes in the sink, unwashed; a glass on the drainer with a residue of milk. Beth's morning drink, taken with fierce reluctance in what was a daily jousting match between them.

Next the living room, a sob bursting from her mouth at the familiar, the homely, the usually comforting.

But now empty and joyless, with toys scattered indiscriminately, the usual aftermath of Beth's
decision-making
on what to play with today.

The study.

Empty and cold, rarely used.

“Beth!”

No reply.

Up the stairs, feet drumming on hollow treads, her legs unsteady with imagined horror.

“
Beth
!”

Bathroom.

Empty. A smell of soap and Beth's
bath-time
Nemo lying stranded near the plughole, a bright flash of colour against cold white enamel.

Why the hell did toys, usually so cutely animated in play, suddenly seem so lifeless yet threatening?

Her and Michael's bedroom. Mostly hers.

Empty. Neat. As she had left it.

Beth's room next, a riot of untidiness left by the whirlwind squall of an active
four-year
-old. Blanket askew, clothes hanging half out of drawers, even more untidy than usual.

Empty.

Then the spare room Tiggi used whenever she stayed over, which was about once a week.

Empty.

She looked again. Something was wrong.

The wardrobe door was hanging open, revealing the bare interior. The few changes of clothing Tiggi kept there were gone, as were the trainers she favoured when walking Beth in the park. And the small alarm clock so she didn't oversleep. She took her duties seriously.

Gone.

But there was a small rectangle of metal lying by the bed. She bent closer, knowing immediately what it was.

The missing phone battery.

She snatched it up, trying not to think the obvious, and ran back to Beth's room. She went to the open drawers, fear escalating as she noted the empty spaces and the jumble of items tossed aside.

Some of Beth's clothes were gone.

With a sob she ran downstairs and out through the kitchen to the back door. It was open. She pushed it back and burst out into the small rear garden, with it's tiny patio and a meagre stretch of lawn with a plastic slide and a Wendy House. The rear windows of houses fifty yards away stared back at her, dark, blank and unhelpful.

Mocking.

She didn't need to see the back gate standing open to know the awful truth.

She fled back inside, her mind numbed, jumping as the front door slammed shut with the flow of air. The sound acted as a catalyst, bringing a sudden rush of tears down her cheeks, hot with fear and anger and impotence; of the agony of not knowing. She wiped them away but felt her heart was about to break.

Think.
Do
something.

Do
NOT
call the police.

DO
tell your husband.

Call Michael? No, he was probably out of reach as usual. She couldn't even recall where he was this time. Somewhere remote and
God-forsaken
, that was a given. She could send a text message, as she did regularly, but it was debatable whether he ever received them all, since he so rarely replied until he was back near civilisation and reliable signals.

She ripped the back off her phone and replaced the battery. She would phone him; it was better to do something than sit here going mad. She dialled the number and waited. Nothing. As she stared at the small screen, it triggered a memory of something Michael had mentioned a long time ago. Something she should do if anything ever happened.

Something about calling a phone number here in London.

The study. She hurried through and opened the small filing cabinet housing the paperwork that was the governance of their everyday lives. Here lay insurance contracts, bank records, utility bills, her birth and marriage certificates, all the detritus required to prove they were who they were.

She pushed her hand to the back, skimming over the plastic tags. The last drop file held a single piece of paper. She snatched it out.

Cruxys Solutions Plc.
The name was followed by a telephone number and an authorisation code:
HAR769M231
and the word
Red
.

Michael had told her that if she ever had reason to call this number, it would be an emergency, and to mention Code Red. It would light a fire under them and they would instigate an immediate response.

She had never asked what he'd meant by it or who “they” were, secure in the knowledge that it was something he had arranged for their own security, but that she would never have to use it.

She went through to the kitchen and picked up the landline phone. Her hands were shaking so much she had to take two stabs at dialling the number.

“Cruxys PLC. Your name and code reference, please.” A man's voice, calm and assured. Like a newsreader, she thought, distant and automatic, unruffled by events in the outside world. Her world.

“It's my daughter,” she muttered. “She's been taken—”

“Please give me your name and reference number.” He was insistent, but his tone gentle. “We will help you but your number will give us all the information we have on file.”

She gave her name and read out the number on the card, adding “Code Red.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hardman. Are you in any immediate danger?” The man's voice was still controlled but now carried a hint of urgency. She heard a keyboard clicking very fast, then a snapping of fingers in the background followed by a door slamming.

“No … They said I mustn't call the police.”

“They?”

“A note.”

“I understand. Can you tell me briefly what happened so we can set things in motion? Help is already on its way to you and will be there shortly.”

“I was at the gym,” she said, fighting for breath and wanting to scream with frustration at the sheer calm quality of the man's voice. “I found a card in the locker telling me my cell was dead and my daughter Beth has been taken and not to call the police. I came home and found the house open and empty. I don't know who could have done this—it's
crazy
! I don't have any enemies, I don't know anybody and Beth is just four years old, she's just an innocent little girl—!” Her throat closed with emotion and fear, chopping off the words in
mid-stream
.

“I understand, Mrs. Hardman. Did the note make any specific demands?”

“What? No, nothing. It said to wait—but that I should tell my husband they would be in touch.”

“Very well. Try to remain calm. Stay where you are, lock yourself in and watch the front door. Help will be with you in a few minutes.” The repeated assurance had become an annoying mantra, but she realised it was intended to help, to reassure, to calm.

She didn't feel calm. “How do you know?”

“Know what?”

“Know where I am? I don't understand—” She broke off. Of course he knew; the code number told him that. All she was doing was wasting time. “I'm sorry.”

M
ore tapping of keys. “There's no need to apologise, Mrs. Hardman. It's perfectly natural. Stay by the phone and our people will be there imminently. They're just a few blocks away. Their names are Gonzales and Vaslik and they will present ID. Let them in once you're satisfied but don't talk to anybody else and stay off the phone.”

“What if the kidnappers call? They might call before Gonzales and—”

“Vaslik.”

“—Vaslik get here.”

“If they do, ask them what they want. Do you have a recording device in the house?”

“No. Yes, I—my cell phone.” She was still holding it. “Why?”

“That's good. Turn on the loudspeaker on your landline and try to record the conversation. But don't hold the cell phone too close to the handset. Gonzales and Vaslik are on their way.”

“Gonzales and Vaslik.” She repeated the names automatically, stumbling over the second one. It sounded Russian. Why would a Russian and a Spaniard be working for these people? Don't they have any English—? Christ, what was she saying? Did it matter what their names sounded like? She clung to the phone and stared at the carpet, numbed by the thoughts piling into the forefront of her brain in an insane jumble, most of them too horrible to contemplate.

“What will your people do? The note said not to tell the police—”

“We are not the police, Mrs. Hardman. Whoever left you the note doesn't know we exist. Now, check all the doors and windows are locked, make yourself a cup of tea but don't touch anything else in the house. Do you understand? Wait for them, don't talk to anyone else, touch nothing. Stay secure.”

“I understand.” She put down the phone and walked over to the kettle, flicking the button like an automaton. She didn't want tea, for God's sake; she wanted Beth. She checked the back door and all the windows, then walked through to the front room from where she could watch the drive and the street outside.

Outside, where everything looked so normal, so uneventful. People walking, driving, living life.

This wasn't real. This wasn't bloody
real
!

She walked back to the kitchen and picked up her phone, and thumbed a text message, the words spurred by anger and helplessness. Maybe, just maybe this would get through to Michael.

Somebody has taken Beth, our daughter. They've kidnapped her! Please tell me what to do! Please call me!!!. N. x

She hit SEND and walked back to the living room, and stood waiting.

She must have zoned out because when she looked next two figures were standing at the bottom of the drive. A slim man with pale skin and fair hair, and a woman with short-cropped dark hair and the build of a gymnast. Both were dressed in business suits, the woman holding a briefcase and the man clutching a clipboard to his chest.

Nancy felt a moment of hysteria building. They looked like insurance salespeople. Or Jehovah's Witnesses.

But she knew they were neither.

three

The house looked smart
enough to Ruth Gonzales, but nothing special, which surprised her. Typical of the area, which was northwest London, suburbia at its most normal and unthreatening.

Or, at least, it had been.

At the smaller end of the property design compared with some of the neighbours, it was a typical west London home for a young family; the kind where, given a few years and with regular promotions and increases in salary, they'd be on the move to somewhere bigger and better.
Up-scaling
their lives to the suburban dream.

“What's up?” The man behind her spoke with an American accent. His name was Andrei Vaslik, although he'd asked to be called Andy. Third generation Russian, he'd explained briefly, his family long settled near New York.

“I was expecting more, somehow,” Ruth replied. “Like the others.” She nodded towards the houses further up. Bigger and neater, openly more opulent; smarter cars, too, mostly 4WDs gleaming and polished. Did the gloss indicate a higher standard of living or a greater level of debt? She checked her watch. 10:00 am. Some gone to work, others were still at home. Out of work or
self-employed
. Sometimes one and the same thing.

“Why more?”

“Because Cruxys clients have money—usually lots of it. This is not typical, believe me.”

The houses she came to in response to calls were generally bigger, the locations more select. Even the problems were bigger, more acute in scale, even if sometimes imagined. Money always brought its own troubles, it seemed to her.

Still, you could never tell. The briefing notes on the client sent to her smart phone ten minutes ago had contained essential details but she hadn't bothered memorising them all. They would find out the really important stuff in the next few minutes. And house size or location wasn't the most crucial.

“How do you folks handle this?” Vaslik was new to Cruxys and still finding his feet in a strange city and a new environment. He'd been paired with Ruth as his mentor. Follow her lead, he'd been told; it was a kind of induction period. Then he'd be on his own unless teamed up with others for specific assignments.

For Ruth it was an unwelcome if temporary intrusion; she preferred working alone or with one of the other operatives, and had sensed that Vaslik wasn't overjoyed, either.

“We go in, we pull Nancy Hardman down off the ceiling and calm her down. We try to figure out who took her daughter … if that's what really happened.”

“You doubt it?”

“I've seen it before: domestic stuff. Just because our clients have money doesn't stop them falling out and doing something stupid.” She looked at him. “But I suppose you wouldn't have seen much of that in the DHS.”

He shrugged, not responding to the implied query. She'd been told that he'd been headhunted from the Department of Homeland Security, the huge standalone US federal agency set up in the wake of 9/11, and before that he'd been a New York City cop. His name had come on recommendation of contacts in the US, and he'd been recruited to add to the company's footprint with US corporations, which was a
fast-growing
market for a hungry company.

In the private security industry, she was learning, presentation and identity were every bit as important as they were in banking.

“We should get in there.” He gestured at the house with his clipboard.

“We will, Slik. Let's allow her a good look at us first. We don't want her thinking we're part of whoever snatched her daughter.”

“Call me Andy.”

“Whatever.” Slik suited him better; Andy was too boyish, too … everyday. Slik fitted his look, which was slim, clean and contained, like a ballet dancer she had once known. He even had the face, with cool eyes, high cheekbones and hungry features, undoubtedly part of his Slavic ancestry. Probably couldn't dance worth a toss, though.

She walked up the paved drive. A Nissan was parked at an angle with the driver's door hanging open, abandoned in a rush of panic. She nudged it shut with her hip. No point adding to the woman's problems by having her car nicked.

She knocked on the door and stepped back, saw a ghost of movement behind the front room curtains. She waited for a shadow to appear behind the frosted glass door panel. At her feet lay a small teddy. It looked forlorn, abandoned. She picked it up.

A metallic clunk sounded as the door opened and was stopped dead by the security chain. Good girl. She'd listened to instructions.

“Mrs. Nancy Hardman?”

“Your names?” The voice seemed to be squeezed with difficulty through the gap, like old toothpaste from a tube. The tone was hovering on the edge of breaking.

“I'm Ruth Gonzales,” she replied calmly, and took out her ID wallet. She held it against the gap and let it go when it was taken. “My colleague is Andy Vaslik.” She signalled to Slik to hand over his ID, which he did.

“You were quick.”

“We were in the area.” After the call had reached the Cruxys control room and the operator had punched in the code red indicator, the system had automatically picked up the nearest team available. She and Vaslik, on the first full day of being paired up for a
show-around
of his new work territory, had been it.

“Wait.” The door closed and the chain rattled. When it swung open again it revealed a woman in her late thirties dressed in gym gear. Trainers, leggings and a top, all clean but worn. A reflection of the woman herself, thought Ruth. Fit but no
fashion-conscious
gym bunny. And by the haunted expression in her eyes, stressed to hell.

As they stepped inside, Nancy Hardman leaned out and scanned the street.

“Don't do that,” Ruth said. “We don't want to go public. If anybody asks, we're from the water company.” She took back their ID in ex
change for the teddy and waited while Nancy looked guilty then mortified for not having picked it up, before turning and leading the way into the living room.

The furniture was neat, clean and reasonably modern, but not top of any range. It pointed to a restricted budget—or careful spending, depending on your point of view. She took a seat on the settee while Vaslik wandered away to check the front and rear windows. He was careful not to touch the curtains, before walking back into the hallway.

“What's he doing? Nancy queried, her voice brittle. “Where's he going?”

“He's doing his job,” Ruth replied softly. “He's going to help find Beth. To do that we need to see if anything has been left behind that might help us.”

“What sort of thing?”

“We won't know … until we find it.”

She waited for Nancy to settle, then said, “Right, Mrs. Hardman—can I call you Nancy?” At a nod she continued, “As I said, we're here to help you find Beth. That's our sole priority. First I need you to tell me
what happened. I know you told John, our controller—the man on the phone—but I'd like you to go over it again for me.” She opened her briefcase and produced a small digital recorder, which she placed
on the coffee table between them. “Don't worry about speaking up—this will pick up your voice quite easily. Take your time.”

Nancy nodded and cleared her throat, then spoke about everything she could remember after arriving at the gym, from opening the locker, finding the card, and leaving. Her words faltered several times, her head dropping as she fought with memory, but she pressed on until she was finished.

Ruth picked up on the missing phone battery. It was the first oddity. “You've no idea how it could have got into the nanny's bedroom?”

“No. I used it last night, so I know it was fine then. And I haven't been in her room—she has a right to privacy.”

“Maybe you dropped it by accident this morning and she picked it up to give it back to you later.” Ruth didn't believe it but it helped to get the woman involved and thinking, rather than sliding down into a helpless mess. The only alternative was that the
four-year
-old daughter had managed to take the battery out of the cell phone, but that seemed unlikely. She suggested it, anyway.

“She couldn't have done. It was a very tight fit. Anyway, I put it in my sports bag when I was getting dressed, the same as always.”

“Always?”

“I use the alarm on the phone every morning. When I switch it off, I put it in the sports bag or on the side table alongside my purse, depending on what I'm going to do.”

“Did you see anybody in the street when you left home this morning or when you got back from the gym?”

“No. I mean, I don't remember. I wasn't expecting to have to look.”

“Fair enough. Have you had any unexpected visitors recently—or received any odd phone calls? Any silent calls where the caller hung up, any visitors who'd got the wrong house, stuff like that?”

“No. Nothing. It's been absolutely normal. Until now.”

Ruth consulted a notebook. “You live here with your husband Michael and daughter Beth, correct?”

“Yes. And the nanny if I need her to stay over.” She flapped a hand and explained, “I work
part-time
as a bookkeeper; I occasionally have to work late.”

“The nanny's name?”

“Tiggi Sgornik. She's Polish, from Warsaw.”

“So many of them are. You trust her?”

“Of course. At least, I have no reason not to.”

“Where's your husband?”

“I don't know.”

Ruth looked up, her head to one side. “Pardon?”

“He's somewhere in Africa … I think.” Nancy's face coloured. “I didn't mean that to sound the way it did. He's a charity field worker; he moves around to wherever he's needed most. Last week it was Nigeria, the week before, Congo. Today, I don't know.” She flapped her hand again, chopping the air. “The phone coverage isn't great.”

“Tell me about it,” Ruth agreed easily. She knew Africa. “I've been there a few times. Some places it's quicker to send a man on a bike.” It was true enough, she had been there, but it helped build a rapport with the woman, to establish a common experience. Lower barriers. “Isn't there any way of getting in touch with him through the charity's head office?”

Nancy looked surprised, then sheepish. “God, I didn't think—” She started to rise but Ruth stopped her.

“It's fine. We'll do it. If you have a contact number we'll call them. But he's definitely out of the country?”

“Yes.”

“When was he here last?”

“Why is that important? I want you to find Beth. Please.” The word came out low, full of pleading.

“We will. It's just background information, that's all. Anything and everything helps us build a picture.”

“Oh. Sorry.” She looked at the ceiling in thought, her eyes moist. “It was ten days ago. He's due back in the next couple of weeks, I think.”

“Do you have family or a close friend you can call on? It helps, sometimes to have somebody to talk to while we get things moving.”

“Not really.” Nancy looked embarrassed. “Michael and Beth are my family. We haven't been here long and I don't socialise much. The gym, work, shopping—and Beth's
pre-school
group. The neighbours seem to be out all day. Or busy.” Her face gave a briefly sour twist.

Ruth nodded. “Yeah, I saw the cars. I've got neighbours like that. Don't know the first thing about most of them and prefer to keep it that way. Seems to work for all of us.” She looked up. “The card you found in the locker—did you keep it?”

“Yes.” Nancy reached inside her leggings and tugged at a pocket. She brought out a crumpled piece of white card. “Sorry—I'm afraid I've probably destroyed any fingerprints. I wasn't thinking clearly.”

“Don't worry about it.” Ruth took the card and flattened it out using the back of her hand. “If there's anything to lift, our people will find it.” She read the message and was surprised; whoever had written this was clearly intelligent. The layout carried the right amount of shock, instruction and threat, guaranteed to knock any certainties about the woman's world from underneath her one by one. The evident close knowledge about her family and her life, and even describing the Polish nanny, who she bet really was cute, was another stage in the process.

She placed the card in a plastic bag in her briefcase. “Is it true what they say?” Nancy murmured faintly. “About the first few hours of a child kidnap?”

“What's that?”

“That there's a very narrow window before something … bad happens.” Her eyes went wide as she said it, and a tear rolled down her face and dropped onto her arm, reality finally given voice.

“Don't think like that, Nancy. It's bullshit.” Ruth was
matter-of
-fact, the absence of polish a deliberate ploy. Some things were best said blunt and harsh, no messing. It cut through the anodyne platitudes used by so many agencies when dealing with victims. She pointed towards the card, which had given the affair an entirely different spin. “Anyway, this isn't a child abduction—at least, not the kind you're thinking about.” She didn't know if it would help or whether Nancy would believe her, but anything that stopped her thinking the worst would help keep things simple.

“It's not?”

“No. Whoever did this wants something.” Like your husband, she thought. If it was a paedophile who'd snatched Beth, Nancy wouldn't have heard a thing. A paedophile wouldn't have gone to these lengths to taunt her. A paedophile would be solely interested in the child, not the family. It was too focused, too deliberate for some grubby little
toe-rag
of a man with the personality of a germ. “Does your husband have any enemies?”