fourteen

“I need an hour of down-time,” Ruth told Vaslik. After the session with Nancy she was feeling drained. Life was a lot easier dealing with suspects; at least you could get heavy with them with some justification. But grieving mothers with daughters who’d gone missing and whose husbands turned out to be something of a mystery were altogether different.

In spite of them trying different lines of questioning, Nancy had continued to maintain that she knew nothing about any Kensington bank account, even agreeing that it was probably a remnant of Michael’s previous life. But Ruth sensed that she was being deliberately vague. If so it could be simply out of embarrassment at not knowing something key about her husband’s financial affairs, or that she was in denial. In the end she decided not to push it. There had to be another way of getting some answers.

While talking to Nancy a question had occurred to her; something that needed to be dealt with by her alone. She handed Vaslik the note she’d made of Hardman’s Finchley address. “Could you check on this place while I’m out? See if anybody remembers them. They left a while back but there might still be somebody around who remembers them.”

She was relieved that they were able to split the tasks between them; trying to check out all the details together would take too long. At least this way they could spread the load.

“No problem,” he said easily. “Call if you need me.”

Ruth’s parents lived in a neat maisonette near Gerrard’s Cross. It was actually Denham but they liked to think that they rubbed shoulders with the wealthier neighbours up the road. You could still hear the twin traffic flows on the M40 and M25, Ruth always reminded them, but they claimed she was deluded. It was a harmless pretence on their part, and she played along with it willingly.

She visited them whenever she could, which was less than they wanted. Her father had retired after twenty-five years with the Met Police and a further ten years as a corporate security advisor. He now played regular golf—badly—and the two of them danced more than adequately with a local ballroom class.

On the way, she picked up the CD Vaslik had given her and slipped it into the player. The music was cheerful, upbeat and different, and she switched it off after ten minutes. Maybe she’d get him some English folk music in retaliation.

“Nail down the silver,” her father said as she stepped through the front door. It was his usual greeting followed by a hug. He still had the build of the rugby player he had once been but was showing signs, she noted, of thinning hair and liver spots.

Ruth’s mother, ten years younger and slim, rolled her eyes at him and gave Ruth a kiss and a long squeeze, then went to make tea.

“What’s up?” her father queried, walking through to the living room.

“Does there have to be anything up?” she replied, then gave in when he looked at her with raised eyebrows. He could read her and most other people like a book. “Sorry, dad, but I need to run something by you. Do you have time?”

He smiled and sat back. “Always got time for you, Ruthie. You still with that bunch of corporate mercenaries?” It was the one piece of grit between them, partly professional disapproval on his part, the other part concern for her safety. It had been just the same when she joined the MOD Police, although the differences between their two policing jobs were less marked. The question also signalled his continued interest in what went on in the world, especially where crimes and trouble were concerned. And he looked on Cruxys as a connection to both.

She told him about the kidnap and the events that had followed, and the brick wall they had encountered with Michael Hardman’s whereabouts. While she was talking, her mother joined them, pouring tea and offering biscuits.

“Sounds a bit rum,” her father agreed mildly. “You’d think he’d have left some better contact details for his wife at least. Mind you, anybody takes out a Safeguard contract with your lot has got to be a bit shy of a good, normal life, haven’t they?”

“Jim,” his wife cautioned gently. They both knew from Ruth that Safeguard contracts were taken out by executives and others working in “difficult” regions of the world. “He was doing the right thing, in case he got … you know.”

He pulled a face but didn’t argue. Instead he reached over to a side table and picked up a small black diary. He riffled through the pages, then stood up. “Be back in a minute.”

“He’s still got the little black book, then,” said Ruth. It was something she’d been counting on. Her father’s list of useful contacts had been as legendary in the family as it was among his police colleagues, and was a habit he’d obviously found impossible to break. Many of the names listed were probably long gone by now, but she knew he tried to keep them up to date. It was his way of keeping in touch with his past.

Ruth’s mother nodded. “It’s got more names in more businesses than 192,” she murmured. “I bet you he comes back with someone to talk to.”

Five minutes later she was proved right. They heard the ting of the phone being replaced in the hall, and her husband walked back in and handed Ruth a slip of paper.

“George Paperas,” he said. “He knows more about charity organisations than any man walking. He’s worked with the best, including the UN, and still gets called in for advice on disaster response. He knows everybody in the field of aid relief. If anybody can help it’ll be him. Buy him a pint and he’ll write you a book on it.” He looked at her with a proud smile. “With a kiddie out there missing, I’m guessing you’ll want to see him straight away. He’s waiting to hear from you. He’s a hop and spit from your offices, so he’ll be easy to call in if needed.”

Ruth stood up and gave him a squeeze, then did the same with her mother. “Sorry about this, mum. Dad’s right—it’s already been several hours and we need to keep on top of it.”

Her father stopped her as she opened the front door. He looked serious. “I know they said no police, Ruthie, but you know they’ll have to be brought on board sooner or later. You can’t not tell them; when it gets out, they, the Home Office and the media will crucify the lot of you for keeping it quiet. Especially if it turns bad.”

She nodded, the reminder giving her a sick feeling in her stomach. “I know, dad. But it’s not my call.”

She left them standing at the door and drove back into London, calling Paperas on the way and setting up a meeting at a pub near where he worked as a charities consultant. Then she tried Vaslik’s number. The signal kept dropping out. She called Gina for an update.

“All quiet,” Gina replied softly. “No calls, no visitors. Nancy’s upstairs.” She hesitated then said, “I gave her one of my sleeping pills.”

“What?”

“I know—I shouldn’t have. But she was pretty pissed about all the questions. I told her it was standard procedure, but she looked like she was about to freak out with exhaustion. I figured it might help if she got her head down for a bit.”

“All right.” Ruth saw the sense in what Gina had done. But it wasn’t a clever move if anything went wrong and it turned out the person protecting her had shared prescription drugs with her, no matter what the reason. “But no more pills, right? We’ll call in professional help if we have to.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“What about you—how are you feeling?” The idea that Gina was carrying sleeping pills and might be relying on them to combat the trauma of the shooting kicking back in was a worry. It was another sign that she still wasn’t fully fit and therefore in no real state to be looking after the mother of a kidnap victim, let alone carrying a weapon.

“I’m fine. I’m not using the pills, if that’s what’s worrying you. I just had some with me.”

“Fair enough.” She checked her watch. Time was trickling by. “Could you call Slik for me?” She gave Gina the name of the pub where she was meeting Paperas and said, “Get him to meet me there.”

Andy Vaslik exited East Finchley underground and turned north, pausing to check the map on his phone for the location of the Hardman’s original address. He walked the length of the street, his target number 24. But instead of a house he found a flower shop nestling alongside a restaurant, a pizza shop and a drug store, all with apartments overhead. The buildings were of red brick, with dormer windows looking out over the road, and the surroundings were neat, unassuming and suburban. The people here were not overtly rich, he guessed, but prosperous enough and proud of their homes. A good sign, since they would notice and remember more about their neighbours than most. Anybody unusual would stand out.

He walked round the block, checking for rear access behind the shops. There were doors, but none that looked like openings onto individual apartments. He returned to the front and entered the florist. A woman in a nylon coat and gloves was trimming the stems of some red roses, and turned to greet him, brushing away a fringe above her eyes.

“Hi. Can I help you?”

“I hope so, but I may have the wrong address.” He showed her the slip of paper with the Hardman’s address and phone number, and explained that he was trying to trace the family for a firm of solicitors. “It’s a bequest situation,” he added.

The woman looked puzzled. “I think your information’s incorrect,” she said. “All the flats upstairs belong to the shops. I’ve been here five years and there’s never been anyone else here. What was the name again?”

“Hardman. Nancy and Michael. They had a small daughter, Beth.”

The woman looked apologetically blank. “Like I said, there must be a mistake. The newest tenants here are the family running the Mahal restaurant next door—and they’ve been here three years.” She went on to explain that the turnover in the area was low, which made the movement of neighbours easy to track. “We get to know each other quite well around here; it’s like a small village. The name doesn’t ring a bell, I’m afraid.”

Vaslik thanked her and stepped outside. His phone was buzzing. It was Gina, with directions to a pub close to Piccadilly where Ruth was meeting a contact.

“On my way,” he said, and disconnected.