The Locker Read Free

received them all, since he so rarely replied until he was back near civilisation and reliable signals.
    She ripped the back off her phone and replaced the battery. She would phone him; it was better to do something than sit here going mad. She dialled the number and waited. Nothing. As she stared at the small screen, it triggered a memory of something Michael had mentioned a long time ago. Something she should do if anything ever happened.
    Something about calling a phone number here in London.
    The study. She hurried through and opened the small filing cabinet housing the paperwork that was the governance of their everyday lives. Here lay insurance contracts, bank records, utility bills, her birth and marriage certificates, all the detritus required to prove they were who they were.
    She pushed her hand to the back, skimming over the plastic tags. The last drop file held a single piece of paper. She snatched it out.
    Cruxys Solutions Plc. The name was followed by a telephone number and an authorisation code: HAR769M231 and the word Red .
    Michael had told her that if she ever had reason to call this number, it would be an emergency, and to mention Code Red. It would light a fire under them and they would instigate an immediate response.
    She had never asked what he’d meant by it or who “they” were, secure in the knowledge that it was something he had arranged for their own security, but that she would never have to use it.
    She went through to the kitchen and picked up the landline phone. Her hands were shaking so much she had to take two stabs at dialling the number.
    â€œCruxys PLC. Your name and code reference, please.” A man’s voice, calm and assured. Like a newsreader, she thought, distant and automatic, unruffled by events in the outside world. Her world.
    â€œIt’s my daughter,” she muttered. “She’s been taken—”
    â€œPlease give me your name and reference number.” He was insistent, but his tone gentle. “We will help you but your number will give us all the information we have on file.”
    She gave her name and read out the number on the card, adding “Code Red.”
    â€œThank you, Mrs. Hardman. Are you in any immediate danger?” The man’s voice was still controlled but now carried a hint of urgency. She heard a keyboard clicking very fast, then a snapping of fingers in the background followed by a door slamming.
    â€œNo … They said I mustn’t call the police.”
    â€œThey?”
    â€œA note.”
    â€œI understand. Can you tell me briefly what happened so we can set things in motion? Help is already on its way to you and will be there shortly.”
    â€œI was at the gym,” she said, fighting for breath and wanting to scream with frustration at the sheer calm quality of the man’s voice. “I found a card in the locker telling me my cell was dead and my daughter Beth has been taken and not to call the police. I came home and found the house open and empty. I don’t know who could have done this—it’s crazy ! I don’t have any enemies, I don’t know anybody and Beth is just four years old, she’s just an innocent little girl—!” Her throat closed with emotion and fear, chopping off the words in mid-stream .
    â€œI understand, Mrs. Hardman. Did the note make any specific demands?”
    â€œWhat? No, nothing. It said to wait—but that I should tell my husband they would be in touch.”
    â€œVery well. Try to remain calm. Stay where you are, lock yourself in and watch the front door. Help will be with you in a few minutes.” The repeated assurance had become an annoying mantra, but she realised it was intended to help, to reassure, to calm.
    She didn’t feel calm. “How do you know?”
    â€œKnow what?”
    â€œKnow where I am? I don’t understand—” She broke off. Of course he knew; the code number told him that. All