fifty-four

When Ruth arrived next morning, the Hardman house was being systematically taken apart by a team of security people. Furniture was being searched and scanned with hand-held scanners, the floorboards were being taken up and the walls were being tested and scanned for recent re-painting or plastering work. The woman in charge answered to the name of Mitchell; no rank, no details. She was standing in the kitchen when Ruth was allowed inside by a constable on duty at the front door.

There was no sign of Nancy, Gina, or Vaslik.

“What’s going on?” Ruth demanded, although in the wake of the meeting in Hyde Park yesterday evening, she could guess the answer. That man then had merely been a front-runner. His task had been to lay out the reasoning the security agencies were following. What was happening now was the hard reality of security work. They had a suspect and this was to see what, if anything, lay beneath the fabric of the building; what secrets lay behind the façade of the Hardmans’ seemingly everyday suburban existence.

“I’ve got the necessary paperwork if you want to see it,” Mitchell replied, although she made no move to produce it. A tough-looking woman in her forties, with hair cut short and the businesslike attitude of a professional, she gave a ghost of a smile. “Not that you have the authority to ask. But I like to be polite. Ruth Gonzales, isn’t it?”

Ruth nodded, nettled by Mitchell’s superior tone. “That’s correct. We searched the place already. What are you looking for?”

Grey eyes settled on her. “You know what the householder is suspected of doing?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’ll know what we’re looking for. Anything and everything.” She gave a puff of air and a wry smile. “Not that it’s looking too promising right now. Interesting set of listening devices, though.” She nodded at the kitchen worktop where a scattering of tiny electronic components had been dropped. “I’d love to find out where they originated from. Somebody else is interested in the Hardmans, I take it?”

“Yes. We’re just not sure who, though. Where’s Mrs. Hardman?”

“Upstairs with Fraser. Now there’s an odd choice for this work. I thought she was classified unfit for service. Or does the private sector not worry too much about the fine detail, like if someone’s still traumatised and a danger to herself and everyone around her?”

It was a long speech but Ruth was determined not to rise to the bait. Mitchell was merely setting out their respective turfs: Ruth’s in the private sector, her own in the official one where the firepower was infinitely greater. “Gina’s fine. She’s solid, in fact. Are you going to put any of this back?” She was referring to a thick layer of plaster on the floor and worktops where a man in overalls was digging into the wall with a hammer and cold chisel. Some of the cabinet base-boards had been kicked in to search the cavities underneath, and the sink was hanging by the water pipes while another man lay on his belly checking the furthermost corners of the kitchen with a flashlight.

“Of course. It’ll be back in top condition by close of play today. The owner won’t even know it’s been touched.”

An exchange of voices came from the front door. Moments later Andy Vaslik appeared, barely restrained by the constable, who was looking red in the face.

“Sorry, ma’am,” the officer muttered. “He insisted.”

“That’s fine,” Mitchell nodded. “Let him in. You must be Vaslik.”

“That’s me.” He waved a hand. “Don’t worry—I can see you’re having fun.” He looked at Ruth. “You got a minute?”

Ruth didn’t, after his vanishing act the previous evening, but it was better than staying here listening to the sounds of destruction going on around them.

She excused herself and followed him outside.

“I’m sorry about last night,” he said immediately, and sounded genuine. He nodded towards the end of the street. “I don’t trust this place enough to talk freely. Let’s walk.”

He led the way a half pace ahead of her, his shoulders set, and Ruth followed, intrigued by his manner. He looked shaken, his lips tight, as if he hadn’t slept well. Eventually he began talking.

“After hearing what the spook said yesterday, I had to talk to somebody. It turns out we have what some would call a situation.”

“No shit,” she muttered. “I knew that much last night. Why the secrecy?”

“Because I had something I wanted to check and I could have been wrong. I like to get my facts straight.”

“And?”

“I wasn’t wrong. I now know who’s behind the kidnap.”