twenty-nine

Carefully noting where everything lay to ensure they missed nothing, Vaslik and Ruth took Tiggi Sgornik’s room apart piece by piece. They lifted everything that could be moved, including the carpet, wardrobe and dresser; checked under the mattress, looking for slits in the fabric, signs that there had been repairs made, anything that might indicate a potential place of concealment. They emptied every drawer, checking the underneath, sides and backs, then moved on to the structure of the dresser and wardrobe, running their fingers across the wood for a trace of a raised or indented surface. They unscrewed the feet, looking for hollows or slots, the familiar hidey-holes for children, spies and those conducting illicit undertakings. Tiggi hadn’t owned much clothing, but they scoured every item, pants, skirts and shoes, testing heels and hems, lapels and pockets, looking for signs that a line of stitching had been opened and re-done.

“She seems to have had money,” Vaslik commented sourly. He was staring at the clothing, which was going to have to go back where they had found it. Among it was the empty packaging from a cell phone. He picked it up and examined the labelling. It was a cheap pay-as-you-go model with no retailer’s marking. “Didn’t extend to her cell phone, though. Maybe cute only goes so far.”

“You’re a cynic, Slik,” murmured Ruth. “But you’re right: I doubt it was her—not on a nanny’s pay. She’s a lucky girl.” She dropped the pair of fluffy slippers she’d been checking and sat on the bed with a sigh. “Are we done here?”

He nodded, sure of himself. “I think so. If there’s anything, it’s in the fabric of the building and we’re not going to find it without using a pickaxe—and I don’t think we’d get that past the head chef downstairs.”

Ruth was frustrated. She’d been certain they might find something here, even a sign that Michael Hardman had got something going with the nanny. At least it would have given them an avenue to explore. But this was nothing, leading nowhere. A big fat blank.

Her phone buzzed. It was George Paperas.

“I called a few more people,” he announced, meaning aid agencies. “Two more knew of Hardman, another two had engaged him—one in Pakistan, the other in the Maghreb, in Tunisia. This guy gets around. I’ve got him popping up in Somalia, Kenya, and Algeria, and a couple of other places. The agencies who knew him or could remember him all reported the same story: he worked with them for a few days, two weeks at most, then disappeared. No explanations, just up and gone.”

“How could he just move around like that? Don’t aid workers have accreditation or visas?”

“It’s complicated. Yes, all humanitarian aid organisations and their staff should have official permission to work in a region like, say, Pakistan. Sometimes they don’t get it for local political reasons, sometimes safety. Each group would or should issue their staff with papers to identify them and their reasons for being there. But with the smaller ones, it’s not always followed to the letter. To be honest, there are one or two I’ve come across who don’t like the interference and simply want to get on with the job. I can sympathise with that; bureaucracy can get in the way of good deeds. But it’s a dangerous thing to do. Like the Christian fundamentalists who got caught distributing bibles in Moscow.”

“Proselytizing.”

“Sure. It was deliberate or stupid, depending on your point of view. But with agency work, having no papers can get you suspected of being there for reasons other than humanitarian help. And in some of the remoter areas, no papers means you won’t be missed if they decide they don’t like your face.”

Ruth felt her neck go cold. “They’d kill them?”

“Yes. It’s happened, believe me.”

On the wall across from the bed was an alpine scene showing a distant rock-face capped by snow and edged by cliffs of granite reaching into the sky. Ruth presumed it was somewhere that reminded Tiggi of home, but it prompted a thought about something Paperas had said in his last phone call about Hardman.

“You said that when Hardman was with Oxfam he’d been driving trucks close to the border near Peshawar. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“How close?” She didn’t know what prompted the question, but the sight of mountain passes in the picture must have jogged her thought processes.

“Pretty close, if I remember the terrain. If he was delivering supplies, he’d have been pretty much on his own for long periods, and it’s not as if he would have been monitored closely by security forces unless he hit a road block. Aid trucks are common, and they’re more interested in looking for small groups or individuals travelling at odd hours of the day or night.”

“What about the agency he was working for?”

“Drivers are expected to be independent and to get on with the job. The agencies don’t have the time or resources to watch them closely. Why?”

Vaslik was staring at her with a fixed expression on his face, and she wondered what he was thinking. Whatever it was, it had him looking worried.

“No reason,” she said. “Brainstorming, that’s all.”