The Locker (17 page)

thirty-three

The man who answered
the door was in his mid-twenties, lean but muscular, with gelled hair. He wore tracksuit pants and a T-shirt, and was walking with difficulty. One of his hands was heavily taped with a splint across two of the fingers.

“Andrew?”

“Who wants him?” He gave Ruth a quick body scan, eyes hovering for a moment on her chest. If this was him, she decided, being beaten up by a woman hadn't exactly put a crease in his libido.

She introduced herself and explained why she was there.

He held the door open. “Great. So now the whole world knows. You'd better come in.” He led her into a cluttered sitting room and said, “Sorry for the mess. I've got a mate crashing in here for a few days.” He lowered himself into an armchair with a grunt. “Excuse me if I don't stand—my knee's killing me.” He lifted one trouser leg to reveal a heavy bandage around his knee, then sat back with a groan.

“Just the knee?”

“I wish. I've got two busted fingers and a stack of bruising.” He indicated his stomach. “Why do you want to know?”

“Let's say the woman who attacked you has form. I'd like to find her.” She showed him the print of Clarisse. “Is this her?”

He gave it a quick look. “Yeah, that's Helen—mad bitch. Sorry … not PC, but I think I've got good reason, don't you?”

“You wouldn't know her address, I suppose?”

“No chance. I hear she's bunked off. If you do find her, give her a kick for me, would you? Only be careful, she's vicious.”

Ruth sat down in another chair. “Your receptionist friend said something about her knowing some awesome stuff. What does that mean?”

He shifted in his chair and winced. “You talked to Laura.”

“Yes. She's concerned about you.”

He smiled. “She's a nice kid. Have you ever heard of Krav Maga?”

“Isn't that an Israeli army martial art?”

“Yeah. I started learning it a few years ago. It's a mix of styles but I recognised some of the moves. It's based on going in with maximum force and neutralising an attacker. She took me down with a kick to the side of my knee and some other strikes … I don't remember the rest.” He sounded almost in awe. “Man, she was so fast. Like a tornado.”

“Sounds like she was angry.”

“Yes—but I never laid a finger on her. If she says different, she's lying.” He looked resentful and defensive. “I tried a couple of cheesy lines on her, that's all. It was nothing to go all ballistic over.”

“That's it? Are you sure? You didn't touch her at all?”

He hesitated, then confessed, “I might have touched her arm. To be honest, I don't remember much about it.”

“
Only
touched her arm? And you teach
self-defence
?”

“OK, stroked her arm. Maybe. I don't remember. It was stupid, I know … but she seemed friendly, even a bit flirty, asking me to help find her way round the centre and point out who some of the clients were. I made a mistake.” He scowled like a little boy robbed of his lunch money.

“Some mistake. Did she ask about anybody in particular?”

He frowned. “I don't think so. Women, mostly, like she might have been looking for gym buddies. But I honestly don't remember.”

“And that was it? She didn't say anything before or after?” She felt frustrated; this was going nowhere fast.

He shrugged. “I guess. I mean, there was something she said just before she started in on me.” Another frown, this time in concentration. “But I don't remember what it was. What exactly has this chick done?”

Ruth ignored the question and took out a card printed with her cell phone number. “If what she said comes back, give me a call. It might be important.”

He studied the card and gave her a crooked smile, suddenly all buoyed up, his ego bouncing to the fore. “Sure will. It's Ruth, right? Ruth what?”

“Don't ask.”

“Huh?”

“Don't let your libido carry you away or I'll come back and finish what she started. My advice is, stick closer to home—like Laura, for instance. She's much more your style.”

He looked hurt. “Hey, touchy. I get the message.”

Ruth stood up. “Good. And next time don't let them get in so close—especially women; we fight dirty.”

He scowled. “You know martial arts, right?” This time his assessment was more professional, less lascivious. “Yeah, you look like |you do.”

“You better believe it.”

She let herself out.

As she got back to the car, her phone buzzed. She didn't recognise the number.

It was Aron, Tiggi's landlord. He sounded worried, even sad.

“You should come here now,” he said. “I think maybe Tiggi is not coming back.”

Aron was waiting for her at the front door, hopping from foot to foot. He smelled of onions and tomatoes. There was no sign of the men from their previous visit.

“What's happened?” Ruth asked.

“Come.” He turned and led her up to Tiggi's room.

It was empty.

Ruth checked the wardrobe. A row of empty wire hangers clinked together in a
sing-song
. “She came back for her stuff?”

“No. Not her. Another woman. She say Tiggi is back home for family business and she is here to pay back rent and collect all her things. I didn't believe her but she pay me and show me a note from Tiggi to say is all right.”

Ruth held her breath. This was too convenient. “Where is this note?”

He looked crestfallen. “I'm sorry. Too late after the woman is gone I realise she has taken it with her. But I know it is from Tiggi—I recognise her writing. Also she say something that I know is her.” He smiled sadly at the memory.

“What was it?”

“She say, “I will miss your meatballs, the best in London.” Tiggi loved my meatballs—she would eat them every day if she could.”

So, it sounded genuine. But it still didn't tell her where Tiggi was.

“I don't suppose you have a home address?”

He shook his head. “Sorry. She never say and I don't ask. Is private.” He frowned. “Actually, I have to say something, but I hope it does not get her in trouble.”

“Go on.”

“In this house we speak English nearly all the time. Is my one rule because I don't want these people coming through here and never learning nothing, you understand?”

Ruth nodded. A man with community spirit. Pity there weren't more like him.

“Too many Polish kids come here and never learn the language properly,” he explained. “Anyway, all the time we speak English and Tiggi is most happy. Trouble is, one time a new arrival speaks to her in Polish, and I overheard her reply.”

“In Polish?”

“Sure. But it strange Polish, you know? It's good—I mean, perfect—but perfect like you learn from a professor. No lazy words, no short cuts.”

“Too perfect—is that what you're saying?”

“Exact. Too perfect.” He smiled a little sadly. “Is not a bad thing, speaking properly, don't get me wrong. But the way she talk, maybe she spend her life in a convent or something.”

Ruth turned and walked downstairs. As she went to open the front door, she asked, “This woman who collected Tiggi's stuff—what did she look like?”

Aron pursed his lips. “Ordinary. But not very … woman, you know? She like someone who is athletic, do too much exercise.” He went on to detail her clothing, in particular her headgear, and Ruth felt a cold line trickle down her back as she recognised the description.

Just to be certain, she showed him the photo she had shown Andrew.

Aron looked surprised. “That is her, yes. You know this person?”

“Not yet,” she told him. “But I will soon enough.”

thirty-four

“Helen Stephenson,” said Ruth.
She was sitting opposite Nancy Hardman in the front room, with Vaslik and Gina close by. She hadn't yet told the other two about Tiggi's bedsit being cleared, only that they were to stick close and listen. She wanted them to hit the same conclusion running as she had done.

“Who?” Nancy looked slightly less
spaced-out
than earlier, but was still exhibiting signs of nervous energy, ringing a handkerchief through her fingers and plucking at her wedding ring. Ruth grabbed her hands to still them, forcing her to concentrate.

“The woman at the Fitness Plus: you thought her name might be Karen but you weren't sure. We now know it's Helen. Helen Stephenson.”

“Oh. Yes. I remember.” Nancy blinked rapidly and tried to pull her hands free, but Ruth held on tight. “I wasn't sure. What about her? Does she know where Beth is?”

“No. We're not sure. I want you to think back, Nancy—this could be important.”

“All right. But you have to let go of my hands.”

Ruth did so. “Sorry. Now, you said you didn't talk much to her, is that right?”

“Yes. She hadn't been using the gym very long, but she was always around. I … I think she had a sort of job there when she wasn't training.”

“That's correct. She worked in the admin office. When you were with her in the gym, did you ever tell her anything about your family—about Beth and Michael? Anything at all.”

A frown. “No. At least, I don't think so. I'm not sure. She may have asked, though.”

“What did she ask?”

“I don't know—just stuff, the way women do. Why is it so important?” Her eyes flicked across to Gina and Vaslik. “What's going on? This is something to do with Beth's kidnapping, isn't it?” Her voice rose in pitch and she started to get to her feet until Ruth pulled her back down.

“No. It's all right. I'm just trying to find out about her, that's all. So we can discount her. Please don't be alarmed.”

Nancy sank back down and Ruth gritted her teeth. Getting heavy with her would be
counter-productive
, but she was getting sick of the woman's lack of awareness. She was also convinced that there was something behind those freaky eye movements, a light deep down inside that meant she was hiding something, or hadn't told them something that could be important. If that were the case, how could she get to it without tipping her right over the edge?

“Let's start again. I want to ask you about Tiggi.”

“All right.”

“You told me the other day that she charged very reasonable rates. Now, I don't have kids, but I know childcare in London is expensive. How did you meet her? Did you advertise?”

“No. Michael didn't want any home help. He said we could manage. But one day I bumped into her outside Beth's
pre-school
group. I mean, literally—we collided. Anyway, we apologised to each other and got talking. She offered to buy me coffee.” She gave a faint smile. “It had been a while since anyone had done that, so I said yes.”

“And then she made a pitch.” Gina looked scornful, recognising the
set-up
for what it was.

“Well, yes, I suppose. But the
pre-school
has lists of names, anyway, so I didn't think anything of it. People do what they can to make a living and everyone knows how
hard-working
the Poles are.” She shrugged. “She told me she was trying to get a CV together but needed more experience and recommendations, and was willing to work for less money to get them. It seemed too good an opportunity to pass up, and I knew if I didn't take her on, somebody else would.”

“Did you check her passport?”

“No, sorry. I never thought to look. I mean, why would I?”

Dumb, Ruth thought. But she wouldn't have been alone in that. Even government ministers got that wrong. “What did Michael think?”

Nancy gave a slight grimace. “He didn't like it when I first told him. He was quite angry—said I should have waited for him to get home before making this decision. But when he came back and met her, he said it was all right.” She smiled at the memory. “Tiggi gets on with absolutely everybody, but with Beth most of all. I was relieved because I wanted Beth to have contact with another adult, to extend her learning. It's not good for a child to have too narrow a viewpoint. They need to be exposed to different people and cultures, don't you think?”

“I'm sure you're right. So Michael didn't approve?”

“He was doubtful at first. But when he saw how well they bonded, he let me keep her on. I was a bit jealous at first, because I thought he was … you know, smitten. But I know that wasn't true because he must come across attractive women all the time, don't you think?”

Nobody spoke, but had she looked at their faces Nancy would have seen scepticism written deep in their eyes. Tiggi had played them beautifully. It had all been too slick, too easy.

Too professional.

She changed the subject before Nancy could fasten on Tiggi as a focus for her anger. “Did you happen to mention to Helen about … I don't know—about your preference for the locker you use, for instance?” It was a fact that Stephenson must have known, but she needed to get Nancy talking about it and hoped it led onto other things.

“No. It wasn't that important—it was just a quirky thing of mine.”

“You're sure you didn't mention it?”

“Yes. I don't talk about stuff like that. Never.”

Ruth glanced at Vaslik, who lifted his eyebrows and tilted his head. He clearly thought the same: that the statement was too definite, too deliberate to be ignored.

“It was only a locker.”

“I know. But Michael said.” Nancy folded her handkerchief and sat quietly, suddenly composed, as if a switch had been thrown now she was on the safe topic of her husband. Vaslik and Gina noticed it, too. They stood perfectly still, unwilling to change the mood in the room.

Ruth leaned in and said gently, “What else did Michael say?”

A shrug as if the answer was obvious. “He said I should be careful about letting people in.”

“In here?”

“No, silly.” She gave a brief smile and patted Ruth's hand as if talking to a child. “He said to avoid letting people
in
in. He meant inside the circle.” She made a twirl movement with her hand. “The circle of our private life.”

“Well, that sounds like good advice. Go on.” Ruth hardly dared breathe. This at last felt like it was going somewhere. But where?

“He said to avoid letting people know my routines. That when people know that, they know too much about you. And in a city like London it could be dangerous.” She gestured towards the outside. “Don't you ever feel that everyone out there is looking at you, watching you? All those fucking curtained windows like eyes?” As she swore, her face went red with emotion, as sudden as it was fierce.

Ruth felt guilty at the thought that popped into her head. Jesus, this woman needs help. “I've never thought about it. But I suppose he's right.”

“Of course he is. You see, most people never give their routines a thought, Michael says. They go about their business, and pretty soon everyone around them knows exactly what they do and when they do it. That's not right.”

“Is that why you move so often—because Michael doesn't like people getting to know you too well?”

Nancy nodded. “I suppose so. I never really considered it. But that's Michael's way, don't you see? He has to be careful in his work, travelling to all those affected places.” She smiled suddenly, lighting up her face like a child giving the answer a teacher wanted to hear.

Ruth resisted the temptation to slap her. Instead, after a second or two of thought, she remembered what George Paperas had said about the variety of places Michael Hardman had visited. She said, “Tell me about all those places he goes to.”

“What about them? I told you I don't know much about them.”

“Fair enough. But he must have an amazing grasp of languages to get around like he does. I mean, they're out in the middle of nowhere, some of them. I wish I had that kind of confidence.”

Another shrug as she looked off into some distant place. “I don't know, either. He is amazing. I think he's merely got a retentive memory, that's all.”

“So he doesn't speak any foreign languages?”

“No. Although …” She hesitated, this time accompanied by a faint crease of concern on her forehead.

“What?”

“We were in a restaurant near Oxford Street about two months ago. He'd taken me there as a special treat after being away for several weeks. It was wonderful—all these dishes I'd never seen before, and he seemed to know them all, telling me what to mix, what to be careful of because they were spicy. He even ordered them in the language of the menu. I told him not to show off, because I was sure he was just reading the words to impress me.” Her face clouded. “Then he got into an argument with one of the waiters. It was horrible.”

“What happened?” said Vaslik.

“I don't know—that's what was so strange. One second we were having this lovely meal, the next he called the waiter across and started shouting at him. I was embarrassed, but he said later he'd heard the man say something rude about me because I hadn't liked one particular dish. He said he was defending me.”

Ruth glanced at Vaslik. She felt a tiny buzz of excitement. Was this significant or merely another dead lead? She saw Vaslik had reacted to it, too. “So he shouted at the waiter.”

“Yes.”

“In English.”

“No. That was the surprise. I don't know what the language was, and frankly, I didn't ask Michael because I wanted to get home and forget all about it.” She picked at her arm. “It was the first time I'd ever seen him really angry.”

“Do you remember the name of the restaurant? Sounds like a place to avoid.”

“God, how could I forget? It was called Mamoun. They specialise in Middle Eastern and Arabic food.”

Ruth stood up. She had to get outside. Something told her this was worth following up. It might be nothing, only time would tell. But she couldn't simply walk out; she needed to use the situation to shake up Nancy's composure, taking her from friendly to hostile in the blink of an eye.

“Right, we're out of here.”