thirty-six

The atmosphere in the Cruxys headquarters was sombre when Ruth and Vaslik arrived to give a report. It was late afternoon and news was coming in that one of the international response teams sent out to Nigeria had suffered gunshot wounds. The exact details were unclear, but the news had gone through the building like a virus. With most of the staff from military, security or police backgrounds, they felt it keenly when a colleague was taken down.

“They’d cleared the airport and got a small charter flight out to the oil installation that had been attacked,” Aston told them, once they were seated in the briefing room, “but came under fire as the plane touched down. The Nigerians aren’t saying much but the pilot says he saw men in army uniform around the perimeter. It could have been friendly fire.” He flicked a hand towards the story boards where a single researcher was ready to take notes. “We’ve had to transfer one of the research teams to another assignment. Caroline, here, is fully up to date on the Hardman situation, although that doesn’t seem to amount to much at the moment. That’s not a criticism.” He looked at the researcher. “I believe you have a query?”

Ruth had noticed that a number of photos from the frame at the Hardman house had been printed and stuck to the board, with names added in marker pen. The ones of Michael Hardman weren’t particularly clear but those of Beth and Nancy, always smiling, served to highlight the tragedy of what had happened to split the family apart. There were two shots of Tiggi, showing a tall, leggy blonde with a devastating smile.

Caroline tapped a varnished fingernail against a blank square on the storyboard, next to the photos, and addressed Ruth. “There’s a file you downloaded from the Hardman’s digital photo frame which came up blank. At least, there’s something there but it wouldn’t open. Our technical guys are working on it, but doesn’t look like a JPEG for a photo, like the others. Could you check it didn’t get corrupted on transfer?”

“Of course.”

“Better still, if you could get the smart card and bring it in, they might be able to open it. It might be a document file that got copied by mistake, but it’s a small anomaly we need to tick off.” She smiled at Aston. “That’s all for now.”

Ruth made a note to check. Any query, any such anomaly right now had to be looked at until it could be dismissed as irrelevant. She couldn’t recall seeing the details of any such file, but she would go back and look at her laptop.

She turned to the question of what they had learned so far about Tiggi Sgornik and “Helen Stephenson.” It firmed up their suspicions that this entire event had been carefully planned and coordinated.

“The timing’s too neat to be a coincidence,” she pointed out. “Stephenson’s been around the gym for at least four weeks, probably longer. Tiggi turned up about eight weeks ago and got her flat not far away from the Hardmans at about the same time. Both seemed to have turned up out of the blue, both are foreign.”

Aston looked puzzled. “You’re suggesting they’re working together?”

“I think they must be.” She looked at Vaslik, who nodded in agreement.

“Interesting.” Aston glanced at the storyboard, where the forensic team’s report had been highlighted. “Jakers reports finding blood on the door jamb of the nanny’s room. If you’re right, then it might imply Sgornik changed her mind when they made the snatch, and there was a struggle.”

“It’s possible. But when she wrote the note to her landlord, Aron, it sounded upbeat.”

Vaslik added, “She might have been acting under pressure. Nancy says she and Beth had bonded particularly well.” He shifted in his seat. “I’ve seen examples where gang members in abduction cases have gone along with the plan, but once they actually get to see the kidnap in action and see what it does, they have a change of heart. It’s traumatic stuff, seeing a child get taken.” When they all looked at him, he explained, “I once had to assist taking a child away from a religious sect. They were brainwashing her but she couldn’t see it. That stuff stays with you.”

Aston pursed his lips. “I think we have to assume that she’s one of them, pressured or not.” He told Caroline to get working on tracing the names in Poland and Israel, although they all knew it was probably pointless. Stephenson was undoubtedly a cover name, and if Tiggi was still alive she wasn’t likely to be easily found.

“There’s something else you should all know,” he continued. “We’ve received news of three men—one a westerner—killed by gunmen in Herat province, Afghanistan. One of them was carrying papers suggesting they were aid agency workers. After your talk with George Paperas I had several keywords added to our news watch list. This popped up as a result.”

“What happened?” Ruth felt further dulled by the report. The killing of aid workers seemed so pointless. They were innocent people trying to help, yet presenting easy targets to extremists.

“That’s the odd thing. The reports say they were killed in a fire-fight.”

“They must have had an armed escort.” Sometimes the local authorities provided escorts for aid workers in the region. It was usually down to local police chiefs to provide the personnel, but not all of them bothered.

Aston checked a sheet of paper in front of him. “According to at least two reliable observers who saw them earlier, they were well-armed and there were thought to be four men in the group. They were approaching a village ten miles from Gulran when they came under attack from unidentified gunmen, thought to be Taliban fighters. There was an exchange of gunfire lasting nearly an hour. When it ended three of the men were dead. There was no sign of a fourth. The local villagers brought the bodies to the nearest police post. The local chief thinks two were Afghani and one was European or American, but as they’d been stripped of personal effects apart from one with a card commonly carried by aid workers, they don’t know anything more about them.”

Vaslik said, “No indications of what they were doing there?”

“None. But they clearly weren’t on a sight-seeing tour.”

“How does this affects us?” Ruth asked quietly.

“By the time the bodies were at the police post, they’d been stripped of weapons and personal effects. Whether that was by the attackers or the villagers is a moot point. The European had been shot in the face, so identifying him is going to be a problem—or would be.”

“What does that mean?”

“The police found a cell phone concealed in his boot. Under direction from us he took a look and reported several numbers. Two of them are here in London, one to a temporary charity base in Croydon. We’re trying to establish contact with them but it’s proving difficult.”

“And the other?”

“The other we recognised through the report details.” He jerked a thumb at the storyboard which included every aspect of the Hardmans’ lives so far known. “It belongs to Nancy Hardman’s cell phone.”