He gave her a sideways look. “You can’t just ring them and ask. It could be a coincidence—they might have had him in their sights for unrelated reasons. And they never explain. What line of work is he in?”
She told him what she knew about George’s background, and he nodded. “That’s it, then. Guys like him have a lot of expertise and the CIA isn’t ashamed to ask for their help when they need it. If he knows people and he’s got the ear of the UN, he’ll have access to a lot of information the CIA doesn’t have.” He frowned. “Not that I think anybody in the charity field would want to be seen dead talking to them.”
As soon as they arrived back at the Hardman house, Ruth pulled Nancy to one side and said, “Tell me about Finchley.”
“Tell you what?” Nancy looked puzzled.
“It was a previous address. We got it off the Safeguard contract file.”
“I never said I lived there,” Nancy protested. “It was where Michael was living when we first met. I was in Edgware. He shared a flat with a friend and didn’t want us to move in together.” She smiled. “He felt it wasn’t right to start off our life together that way. He’s old-fashioned like that, which was another thing I liked about him.”
“Did you ever see this place?”
A slight hesitation. “Well, no. I mean, he said it wouldn’t be right, so I went along with it. We used to meet at my place. But after a few months we decided to share an apartment he’d found in Harrow.”
“Wow,” Ruth murmured in admiration. “A few months? You must have taken a lot of cold showers.”
Nancy blushed at the comment and plucked at a piece of stray cotton on her sleeve. “Yes, it was tough—especially the not … being together, if you know what I mean.”
“No sex. I get it.”
“When we did move in together, he said something which I thought was really sweet. He said us being a couple finally made him feel whole—and gave him a sense of history. Then Beth came along and we were three.” Her eyes glistened at the memory and she grabbed for a handkerchief.
Ruth stared at her and wondered with a tinge of guilt whether Nancy was cosmically dumb or genuinely sweet. Then she realised that there was something she’d just said that plucked at the corner of her mind, but it wouldn’t become clear.
“So what happened with Finchley?”
“I think he continued paying some rent on that for a while so as not to let his friend down.”
“Do you know the name of this friend?”
“No. Sorry. I never met him. Michael said they were at college together. I gather he was having a hard time.”
“I don’t suppose you know which college?” She already knew the answer to that one, but had to ask.
Nancy looked sheepish. “No. If he told me I forgot. Why—what’s the problem?”
“Nothing. Crossed wires, that’s all.” Damn, she thought. Another puzzle. Why would Hardman tell his wife he’d kept up an address in Finchley when there wasn’t one? Even if he’d had a genuine place in the area, why lie about it? One thing was certain: wherever the apartment was, it certainly hadn’t been above any flower shop.
Unless the “friend” had been a woman.
Nancy was still in sugar-sweet memory mode. “It was when we were in Harrow that Michael began, as he said, to build his life,” she said quietly, adding, “our” life. He’d given up working in the city shortly before we met and had begun working with charities. Once we were together he started with the list and went on from there. It was like a door had opened into the real world, he said. The start of a whole new life.”
“Lovely,” Ruth said, and wondered if the holes in that story were genuine, or a product of her own suspicious mind. Was the man for real? Nancy was no slouch in the looks department, yet Michael had resisted moving in with her for months. Then he’d started doing charity work. By any standards, sainthood was just a matter of time.
She went in search of Slik, who was out checking the rear lane, and gave him a run-through of the conversation. It gave her a chance to vent in safety.
He seemed amused by her scepticism. “You should visit the States; there are lots of guys who don’t believe in cohabiting before marriage. What’s wrong with that?”
She gave him an icy look, suspecting that he was winding her up. “What’s wrong? I’ll tell you what’s wrong, Slik: this is London, not some small-college town along the bible belt where touching below the chin is a mortal sin. Sex before marriage here is a way of life and I don’t believe for a second the crap about him paying rent just to help out a friend—unless the he was a she. As for starting their life together and making him feel whole—Yuk! Give me strength.”
Vaslik nodded. “I agree. But sugar-sweet is not a criminal offence.”
“You agree with me?” It surprised her. “Since when?”
“Since a while back. As I said earlier, there’s something a bit screwy about this whole set-up. Trouble is, I doubt we’ll ever find out where he was living when he met her. In fact I can’t help thinking it was almost deliberate—as if he chose her because of the kind of person she is.”
“Really? I think she comes across as gullible, but she’s no kid; we’re not talking about a grown man taking advantage of a school girl.”
“Maybe not. Anyway, I don’t think the Finchley place matters any more. Everything he did was from there onwards. The rest is a blank.”
They toured the block, checking cars and faces, talking out the kinks in what they knew so far. A lot of it made no real sense, but there wasn’t much they could do until the reasons for Beth’s kidnap and the kidnappers’ interest in Michael Hardman became clear.
“Do you have family?” Vaslik asked, as they turned a corner.
“Sure. Two parents, five aunts, three uncles and a few cousins.”
“I didn’t mean that kind.”
“I know.” She smiled. “You meant husbands, boyfriends or significant others.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not married and my last significant other bailed out three months ago. That do you?”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. Did he get promotion?”
“She.”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Same question, switch gender.” He was smiling now, but she wasn’t sure whether he was teasing her or simply pleased with himself at having wormed out an answer.
“She went to Australia on a police exchange program. I’m not sure if she’s coming back, though.”
She and Lisa had begun drifting apart, their lives on divergent courses until a row had propelled Lisa into applying for the exchange post. It had suited them both at the time, providing a seamless and easy cut-off to their three year relationship. Ruth had missed her almost immediately, and was still unsettled by the constant reminders of her and the distance between them.
She wasn’t sure if Lisa felt the same way; only time would tell or until one of them made the first move.
Vaslik nodded but didn’t say anything.
She stopped walking. “Is that it? You ask but don’t give?”
He turned and waited for her to catch up, staring at the sky. “I’m divorced, no kids, no pets. Cops and marriage don’t always go together, DHS even less so. Since we split I’ve been too busy moving around and haven’t had time to develop a significant anything.”
“You should,” she advised him, detecting a glimmer of something softer in his outer demeanour. It made him seem suddenly less faceless. “The ice-man image really doesn’t suit you.”
They arrived back at the rear of the house and found Gina waiting at the back door.
Vaslik nodded and walked past to check the front of the house and the street.
“Anything?” said Ruth. There was no sign of Nancy and the building was silent. She thought Gina looked brighter, as if she’d got a second wind. Or maybe she’d taken some of
her happy pills.
“Nothing. No mail, just a charity bag drop. I thought that was ironic, considering. You?”
“Lots of questions, not many answers.”
“It’s still day one.” The kitchen clock showed 6:30 and Ruth wondered where the time had gone. She was beginning to feel drained. But Gina was right; they were still at the beginning. The kidnappers were probably waiting to see who showed up first—the cops or Michael Hardman.
She asked Gina if she had slept.
“Cat-napped.” She blinked as she said it, instantly conscious of the similarity in wording and their reasons for being here. “Sorry.”
Ruth waved it away. It was too easy to get paranoid about what was said in these situations in a rush of over-sensitivity for those left behind. “Don’t worry. I once baby-sat a senior banker who’d received death threats; a note said he was going to be chopped into minced-meat for refusing a loan. I mentioned at one point without thinking that I could kill for a burger; he wasn’t impressed.”
Gina turned her head towards the front of the house. “How’s the all-American boy? Has he come onto you yet?”
“I’m not his type. You?”
“I don’t think he trusts me enough for that. The feeling’s mutual, come to that.”
“Why?” She felt disloyal talking about a colleague like this, but her interest was piqued. Damaged or not, Gina Fraser was still a cop by instinct and training. Her job entailed studying people and making assessments based on behaviour, attitude and her own instincts.
“Not sure. There’s something about him. I’ve met a lot of American cops and quite a few of their Secret Service people. Vaslik feels more spook than cop.” She checked the camera monitors then said, “Or maybe it’s post-traumatic shock kicking in and making me suspicious of everybody around me—even the friendlies.”
Ruth admired her honesty. “A spook? How’s that, then?”
“I don’t know … he’s very self-contained, as if he doesn’t really fit—or maybe doesn’t want to. Like he’s rising above everything and playing a part. Their Secret Service agents are like that: totally focussed on the Main Man and disconnected from the rest of humanity unless they pose a threat.”
“He’s a kidnap specialist and a former Homeland Security agent. Not so different, I guess.”
Just then Vaslik stepped back into the kitchen. “All quiet. We staying here?”
“Yes.” Ruth felt tired. She needed something to eat, then sleep. She would have preferred her own flat and bed, but the likelihood was that if the kidnappers made contact, it would be sooner rather than later. And Gina needed to be spelled, too; she couldn’t keep going even if she pretended otherwise. Being high on adrenalin was no substitute for rest, and they would need her at her best if this thing went off.
“You don’t have to,” said Gina, reading her mind. “I’ll call if anything happens.”
“We’re staying.” Ruth gestured at the sofa. “We’ll take turns to kip; four hours on, four off. You go to bed and I’ll take the first stag.”
Gina shrugged and wandered off towards the stairs, yawning, while Vaslik looked unmoved. It was nothing he wasn’t used to. He made a show of checking the sofa for firmness and went to do another scan of the building.
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.
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