The Locker (6 page)

“But you don't know if there is a ransom.”

“True. But the note, as vague as it is, points towards some kind of negotiating position: tell your husband. It implies that he will be faced with a demand.”

“I see. How quickly then, overall?”

“It could be from a few hours to several days depending on how secure the kidnappers feel about themselves to the strength of their desire to achieve their aims. Beyond that, we're in unknown territory.” They all knew what he meant: that not all kidnappings came to a satisfactory conclusion, either through precipitate action on the part of the authorities or panic on the part of the criminals. Both often led to the death of the victim, as did a delayed response to their demands.

And this one was already entering a dangerous phase.

“Well,” muttered Claas, “let's hope it does not go on too long.” He stood up and walked from the room, leaving behind a leaden silence.

“As quickly as you can, I think,” Aston suggested softly, and nodded towards the two researchers, who were waiting for information. “But do it right. Let's get as much background detail as we can and start digging for anything new.”

Ruth handed her laptop to one of the researchers, to download the contents of the photo frame for the storyboards, then walked up to the admin and accounts department where all the client records were lodged. They had been forewarned by Aston and a folder was sitting on the department supervisor's desk.

“It's a bit thin.” The supervisor's name was Margie, who spoke with the gravelly voice of a confirmed smoker. She opened the folder and showed Ruth the original contract, signed by Michael Hardman and countersigned by the then contracts manager, who had since left. The initial payment was by cheque drawn on a bank in Kensington, with the client's address shown as Finchley. The contract agreement was for three years, renewable automatically every twelve months thereafter unless cancelled by the client.

“He believed in thinking ahead,” Ruth murmured. “What's the usual
sign-up
period?”

“
Twenty-four
months, but it's flexible. If the client wants to make it several years and pays up front, we don't argue. Some of them get posted for long periods to the back of beyond. If they cancel the contract because they no longer need it we make a
pro-rata
refund.”

“Is this complete?” Ruth was looking at a list of five
alpha-numerics
, all in Greater London. They were the previous postcodes for the Hardmans' addresses.

But Margie dashed her hopes. “It would be if we had anything more to enter. As you can see, they've moved about a bit since the initial contract. That's all we've got.” She turned to her monitor and entered the client contract reference. It brought up a record of the Finchley address, with a phone contact number followed by the postcodes on a series of
change-of
-address panels. The last full address listed was at the house now occupied by Nancy. “The contract began in Finchley, as you can see, but they moved and notified us each time of their new postcode, to keep the records active.” She sniffed. “Waste of time if you ask me. No good taking out a Safeguard contract if we don't know where to find the client.”

“Well, we knew this time,” Ruth said. “Perhaps they didn't get on with their neighbours. You don't keep the addresses, I suppose?”

“Not beyond the first one, which we need for legal purposes. We try to delete old information as a matter of course, but we must have missed these postcodes. Not that they'll be much use; they won't show which house or flat they lived in.”

Ruth took out her cell phone and dialled the phone number listed. Out of service.

“We run regular data checks to update the client profile and contact details,” Margie added. “But if the client moves away and doesn't tell us, there's not much we can do. This one must have told us about the new addresses but not the contact number. I guess we didn't need it until today.”

Ruth decided to have Vaslik check the Finchley address. It was a long shot but maybe they'd get lucky and find somebody who had known the family and could give them some information on Michael Hardman.

ten

Fitness Plus turned out
to be an upgraded, upbeat leisure centre and gym run by a private management company on behalf of the local authority. Constructed of red brick with a Scandinavian-style
low pitch roof, it had a car park at the front and side with perhaps a dozen vehicles, and a large banner over the front entrance offering monthly and annual deals on fitness programmes for senior citizens and “early birds.”

The aroma of scented air freshener hit Ruth the moment she walked through the entrance, accompanied by the throb of Latin dance music coming through the walls. Zumba, she guessed; she'd tried it once and hated every second.

She walked past a water feature and a booth advertising fitness clothing, and approached the desk alongside a steel security gate equipped with a
swipe-card
reader.

A young woman receptionist in a white coat was deep in conversation with a muscled youth in a uniform vest and stretch pants. She was leaning back so that he might appreciate her full chest, tantalisingly
near-visible
through the thin material, but he seemed unimpressed by what was on offer, and more concerned with plucking at a new tattoo on his forearm. It looked like a Smurf but it was hard to tell.

“Can I help?” She flicked a reluctant inner switch and the young hunk moved away gracefully with a vague smile and disappeared down a short corridor, flexing his triceps as he passed another trainer coming out of an office.

“I'd like to take a look around,” said Ruth. “I'm thinking of taking out membership.”

“No problem. We have inductions twice a week, and the next one is tomorrow. Nine o'clock?” She reached for a pen, then paused as a phone rang in an alcove behind her. “Sorry—excuse me just one second.” She turned and disappeared, and Ruth heard her talking to someone about a cancelled booking.

She looked longingly at the security gate. A quick jump and she could be over and gone in a split second. The Barbie doll in the white coat wouldn't even notice.

She came back. “Right, where was I? Oh, yes, all the facilities will be explained then and—”

“I'd rather do it now. Just let me wander. I'll find my way and I won't steal anything, I promise.” She held up her Cruxys ID card. It looked sufficiently authoritative at a quick glance to convey the possibility that she could be official and therefore not to be messed with. It worked. The girl straightened up and pressed a button below the desk, and the steel gate swung back with an efficient click.

“Help yourself. I can't leave the desk, otherwise …” She shrugged, already looking beyond Ruth to a new arrival.

Ruth thanked her and walked through, taking out her phone as she went. She called up the camera and began taking discreet shots, eyeing the cold lenses of CCTV cameras on the ceiling. She made a mental note to get Aston on the case; gaining access to any footage would take a bit more muscle than she possessed, and the Cruxys operations commander was known to have friends in high places.

She reached a junction in the corridor and looked right. A strong tang of chlorine hung in the air and the sound of running water echoed along the walls. She turned left and walked along another corridor, this one lined down the
right-hand
side with steel lockers three high and a bank of vending machines stacked with cold drinks and snacks.

She walked straight past, checking out the glass panels in doors on the left. One was to a small interview room, another to a room with a treatment table, and another to the main fitness studio complete with equipment, mats and weights.

The end of the corridor ended in a fire door, so she turned and retraced her steps, stopping level with the last line of lockers and holding her phone to her ear. A camera stared blankly down at her from the junction leading to the front desk or the pool.

Miming a conversation, she studied the bank of lockers. Just as Nancy had described, the key to No 2 was held by a large safety pin, unlike its neighbours which all had orange fobs.

Still talking to an imaginary person, she reached out idly and flipped the door open. Just a locker, empty of cards, threatening or otherwise. And from here, there was no way anybody loitering near the front desk could see who was using them.

But the camera could. She felt a tingle of hope.

She closed the locker and turned to check the doors on the other side. The glass viewing panels revealed little. It was possible, at a stretch, that somebody inside the rooms or the fitness studio could see the lockers. But which one?

She had seen enough.

She dropped the mime act and dialled the office number, asking to be put through to Aston. She walked back past the reception desk, waving at the girl in the white coat, and noting the name of the management company from an information brochure in a rack by the door.

“Aston.”

“I need access to some CCTV footage.” She explained where it was and the possible significance, and gave him the name of the management company.

“I don't know them personally,” he murmured. “But I'm sure I can find somebody who does. Leave it with me.”

“Thank you.”

“What are your thoughts?” It was one of his more common questions; he liked his investigators to voice their initial reactions to a situation and get them out there for discussion.

“About this place? Could be a member of staff with access to the security footage. All they'd need to do is watch on the days she was in here and they'd soon build up a pattern. But the building is wide open in other ways. If we can see who placed the card in the locker, we've got it nailed.”

He grunted, carefully
non-committal
. Luck like that rarely came along, and they both knew it. He added, “One thing, Ruth; you might be careful of our latest addition to the board. He comes with a lot of investment capital and likes to give the impression of wagging the dog. But in the final analysis he's also following orders. That makes him anxious to achieve results as quickly and as
cost-effectively
as possible.” He was warning her about Martyn Claas.

“You mean not cutting in too heavily to the Safeguard premiums, even though that's the reason they were paid to us?”

“Precisely. Go to any insurance company and you'll find the same argument.”

“Who gives him those orders?” Apart from office gossip, she knew next to nothing about most board members, and even less about this latest addition.

“Claas is Dutch, along with nearly half the European board in Amsterdam. But the bigger piece of the cake is American, from a group called Greenville Inc. Between them they pretty much dominate salvage and IT on the Dutch side, and Security, venture capital and Risk Management on the US side. Claas is believed to be building strong links with the US State Department, and is pushing hard for a slice of their market. It was he who approved bringing in American personnel like Vaslik and James Ellworthy, to show that we had the right employment credentials.”

Ellworthy, she recalled, was an IT specialist who lived somewhere in the basement surrounded by electronic toys, but she had never met him. It worried her slightly that Slik had any kind of connection with Claas, and she wondered how close it was. She only realised that she'd spoken her thoughts aloud when Aston responded.

“Vaslik doesn't know him. He was recommended along with several other names, but he had to pass an interview panel the same as all employees. He did so on his own merits. Does it bother you?”

“No. I just like to know I can trust whoever's got my back.”

“Fair comment. But remember Vaslik's the fish out of water here; he probably feels the same about you.”

She switched off the phone and walked back to her car deep in thought about Claas and the people above him. Bloody venture capitalists;
modern-day
alchemists with their fingers in all the pies.

Andy Vaslik liked using London's underground. It bore little comparison to the marble, stained glass and chandeliers of Moscow's famed metro, which he'd experienced, or even the New York subway, which he'd lived and breathed for most of his life. But it was anonymous enough for him to move among people while remaining faceless; one of the crowd, in the background, Most of his fellow travellers, whatever their nationality, were happy to keep to their own space, unthreatening and reserved. He liked that. He felt more in control here than in a car, where eyes on the sidewalks and in other vehicles were drawn towards those fortunate enough to be insulated from the masses and the relentless push and shove of pedestrians.

He emerged onto the street at Lancaster Gate into the grey light of threatening rain, and followed his nose to Queensway. He turned up the bustling shopping area and stopped at a side street containing a handful of smaller shops. He checked the numbers and found the one found by the researchers matching the telephone number given by Nancy Hardman. The property was vacant and sandwiched between a record shop and a travel agency. The front window was heavy with grime and a look of desolation, and plastered on the outside with posters of music events, clubs and missing persons.

He tried the door on the
off-chance
. Locked tight. The fascia overhead bore the remains of lettering suggesting the premises could have been anything from a topless bar to a laundromat. All he could make out through the glass between the posters and dirt was an empty space with electric cables hanging from curling ceiling tiles and a pile of junk mail and old newspapers growing brown and
sun-faded
behind the door. Somebody had taped up the letterbox to stop a further accumulation of paper and other detritus.

He went to the record shop next door. It looked as if it had been there since Cole Porter was a boy. A bell pinged as he entered and a youth with an unreasonably long and plaited goatee beard looked up and smiled a greeting.

“How ya doin'? The accent was Australian, friendly.

“The place next door,” said Vaslik. “Anybody been there recently?”

“You from the council?”

“No. Just asking.” He looked round and saw a box of classical music CDs. Reached across and plucked out one by the Ossipov Balalaika Orchestra. It wasn't a personal favourite but it would serve a purpose. “I'll take this.” He placed a twenty on the counter but kept his fingers firmly on the end.

The youth got the message. “No worries. I've been here eighteen months and nobody's used it all that time. What I hear is the owner died and it's in the hands of
blood-sucking
scumbags in smart suits.”

Lawyers, Vaslik figured; the same in any language. “Not even a
pop-up
?” Vacant stores were sometimes used as a temporary home to charities unable to afford high street rents. They'd come in, do their work, then move on.

“Never a
pop-up
anything 'cept for rats … and a
piss-hole
for drunks.”

Vaslik let the note go, took the CD, and left.