twenty-three

George Paperas called towards midday. Ruth took the call in the study, in case the conversation included something Nancy didn’t need to know.

“Interesting person, your Michael Hardman,” he began.

“You’ve found him?” She couldn’t help it, she felt a tingle of electricity pass through her. But it didn’t last.

“No. Nothing like that. In fact, that’s the odd thing: he’s actually proving very difficult to pin down. I rang a dozen names on that list of agencies you gave me. Fortunately, most of them were people I know. It seemed the quickest way to get some feel for him.”

“What did you find?”

“In a way, more than I expected … and a lot less. Hardman’s got something of a name for himself; he’s a bit of a butterfly, is the general view. He first popped up as a field volunteer with Oxfam about four years ago, in Pakistan. He showed up one day at a transit camp near Peshawar and offered to pitch in. They were under pressure and grateful for any extra hands they could get. He quickly became a valued member of the team and even drove supply trucks close to the border when the local contract drivers got scared off by threats from the Taliban. Then a couple of weeks later, he disappeared, saying he had family stuff to resolve.”

“Could be true,” Ruth murmured. “His daughter’s very young.”

“Well, he never said anything about that. It was the same with five other agencies I spoke to. They’re mostly small and don’t have the resources to turn away offers of help, so when he turned up they took him on with open arms. But it was one-sided.”

“How do you mean?”

“He’d be there as promised, work for a few days, maybe a week or two, then fade into the background. Not all the names ticked on the list had heard of him—and I know at least three of them who have excellent record keeping. For a committed aid worker, he doesn’t seem to have left much of a footprint.”

“Did anybody know anything about him?”

“That’s the problem: nothing. He never volunteered information about his background or family, even in down-time, which is rare. Work in tough circumstances like field aid, and you talk about anything to take your mind off what you’ve seen, if only for a few hours. He didn’t do that; didn’t indulge in gossip and appeared to have no political leanings. Most aid workers are pretty open about where they’re from; it’s camp-fire stuff. Engaging with others is part of the job description if you’re serious about it. But your Mr. Hardman doesn’t appear to have been the type.”

“Was he paid by them?”

“No. That was the thing they liked. He didn’t ask for anything, so most of them figured he had private money and a conscience. He wouldn’t be the first.”

“What did they think of him?”

“Pleasant enough, organised and hard-working for the time they knew him … but not somebody they’d welcome back. Each time he left, he created a gap in the workforce that often couldn’t be filled quickly enough. It happens, of course, when workers fall ill or suffer an injury of some kind; then they have to be evacuated out if it’s serious enough and a replacement found. But this was different. He simply left with little or no notice.”

Ruth felt a pulse beating in her throat. “And no ideas about where he’d gone?” She wasn’t sure why that was important, but it was something she felt she had to ask.

“None. He simply left and disappeared.”

She thanked him for his help and cut the connection, then went in search of Slik.

“He said he had something to do,” said Gina, who was leaning against the kitchen sink working her way through a bacon sandwich. She pushed a plateful towards Ruth. “Here, get one of these down you. You look like you’re thinking too much.”

“Thanks.” Ruth was hungry and took a bite, wondering where Slik had gone and why she had a bad feeling about Michael Hardman.