twenty

The three of them swung into action. The woman might have been the genuine article, going about her business of calling on a neighbour. A friendly gesture from one person to another, commonplace and harmless.

But their combined instincts and experience said otherwise. Even given the trauma of having her daughter kidnapped, Nancy wouldn’t have made a mistake about knowing such an unusual name or the fact that a house just along the street was supposed to be empty.

Gina checked that the doors and windows were locked tight and all the camera monitors were in full working order, while Vaslik took a walk out to the rear gate and the lane outside. He came back and shook his head. All clear, with no obvious surveillance on the house. If they were there, they were being very cautious.

Ruth was standing at the front window, studying the building at No. 38 and hatching a plan of action. She was too far away to see much detail without binoculars, and without investigating closer, couldn’t tell if they were currently under surveillance. But she had to gauge the effects of doing nothing against the risk of running into the mystery woman and her colleagues at the house in question.

“Do you think they know we’re around?” Gina queried.

“They know somebody is. But not who. They’ve seen you with Nancy at the shops and seen me here in the house. That doesn’t mean anything. Friends drop by all the time and people put on an act, even under stress. Hopefully they haven’t seen Slik yet.”

“I vote we go make a house call,” said Vaslik calmly. “If they’re gone they might have got careless and left a trace. It’s better than sitting here wondering.”

“What if they’re in there?” said Gina.

Vaslik merely smiled. He looked as if he would enjoy finding out.

“I agree with Slik.” Ruth looked at Gina. “We go take a look. Can you stay here in case the consultant comes round? We won’t be long.”

Gina nodded reluctantly. She wanted in on the action.

Ruth and Vaslik left through the rear gate and circled the block, scanning the area for parked cars with people inside. Nothing doing. Everything looked normal; houses, gardens, cars, voices, a loud burst of rock music from an open garage where a man had his head under the bonnet of a car.

They entered the road running past the Hardman house and approached No. 38 side by side, two people chatting casually, nothing out of the ordinary.

Just as they reached it, Vaslik took a deep breath and said softly, “Keep walking and don’t look at it.”

He’d just realised that this was the house where the real estate agent had been taking photographs.

“What’s got you all fired up?” Ruth queried when they were fifty yards past the property. “Did you see something?”

“Maybe nothing.” He explained about the photographer, and they debated abandoning their house call.

“It could have been a genuine agent,” Ruth countered. “People do sell houses all the time—even empty ones.”

“Sure,” he agreed. “But why this one right now? It’s spooky.”

“So what do we do?”

He chewed it over for another few paces, then said, “Let’s go for it. If they’re in there, at least we’ll know it. If it’s empty, we can tick it off the list.”

They turned round and walked back.

The paved area in front of the target house was bare, with dead leaf mould crushed into jagged gaps between the stones and a layer of gritty dust over the top. Twin pot plants held the remains of dead bushes, long dried out and abandoned, their branches decorated with bits of paper debris.

“No recent traffic,” Vaslik murmured. He sounded very calm but Ruth could feel the tension radiating off him. He aimed for the side gate leading to the rear garden. “Won’t be long.”

Ruth let him go, eyeing the upper windows which had grey net curtains hanging limply behind dirty glass. The lower windows were impenetrable behind vertical blinds, the original royal blue colour of the fabric faded in places from sunlight and layered in dust. All the frames showed signs of peeling paint and gaps in the pointing.

Ruth stepped up to the front door and used the knocker. It echoed emptily back at her. She gave it a count of five and tried again. If anybody was in, they must have nerves of steel. If not, it might distract them long enough for Vaslik to take a good look and see what they might be up against. If anyone inside tried slipping out the back, they’d run slap into him. For some reason the thought encouraged her.

Nothing.

She followed the route Vaslik had taken down a paved path, past a small garden shed and a greenhouse grimy with moss and ancient cobwebs. Both structures were empty. The path opened out onto a patio surrounded by a foot-high brick wall topped with coping stones.

Vaslik was standing by a set of wood-framed French doors, peering through the glass at the inside. He was holding a lethal looking folding knife in his hand, the point inserted in the crack near the lock. He gave a sharp twist and the door sprang open.

Seconds later he was inside.

“Care to show me how you did that?” Ruth asked, following him in and closing the door behind her.

“Session three from the DHS Basic Investigation Techniques manual,” he said, snapping the knife shut. “Somebody’s been camping out in here. Smell it?”

She did. The air smelled musty and damp, of abandonment. And something else.

Takeaway food.

They checked the rooms quickly, not knowing how long they had got before Clarisse returned. The house had been emptied of all furnishings, and each sound echoed back at them. Slik ran upstairs while Ruth did the downstairs. Kitchen, utility, small breakfast room, toilet and living room. All empty.

She checked the sink. Water lay pooled in the bottom. She dipped her finger in it and sniffed. It smelled fresh. She gave the tap a shake. There was a gurgle and a spiral of residual water trickled out into her hand. She tasted it.

A faint chemical residue, but also fresh.

She went back to check the toilet. Whoever had used it last had forgotten to flush. She wasn’t about to take the same taste test but she was willing to bet that the contents were not more than a few hours old.

She stepped through to the front window and teased open a slat in the blinds. From here she had a clear view of the Hardman’s front door. She looked down at the floor, which was wood-block. Then she got down on her knees and checked closer. The blocks were covered in a layer of dust … except for the area right in front of the window. She felt a kick of excitement.

This had been an O.P.—an observation point.

She had no problem imagining the woman named Clarisse on her knees here; even though the house was empty, it would have been essential to remain still this close to the window, to avoid catching the eye of a casual observer or a neighbour with too much time on their hands.

Vaslik entered the room and saw what she was doing. “They watched from upstairs, too. There’s a flattened area in the carpet. Great O.P.”

“Did you check the bathroom?”

“Used but not flushed. The water’s on but they wouldn’t have wanted to alert the neighbours.”

They left the empty house and walked back the way they had come. Neither spoke; the situation didn’t need it. It was patently obvious that the Hardmans had been under observation before and after the kidnap, and the woman in the beanie hat had come over to check what was happening before they made a move on Nancy.

It meant the other side was getting impatient.