The Locker Read Free Page A

she was doing was wasting time. “I’m sorry.”
    M ore tapping of keys. “There’s no need to apologise, Mrs. Hardman. It’s perfectly natural. Stay by the phone and our people will be there imminently. They’re just a few blocks away. Their names are Gonzales and Vaslik and they will present ID. Let them in once you’re satisfied but don’t talk to anybody else and stay off the phone.”
    â€œWhat if the kidnappers call? They might call before Gonzales and—”
    â€œVaslik.”
    â€œâ€”Vaslik get here.”
    â€œIf they do, ask them what they want. Do you have a recording device in the house?”
    â€œNo. Yes, I—my cell phone.” She was still holding it. “Why?”
    â€œThat’s good. Turn on the loudspeaker on your landline and try to record the conversation. But don’t hold the cell phone too close to the handset. Gonzales and Vaslik are on their way.”
    â€œGonzales and Vaslik.” She repeated the names automatically, stumbling over the second one. It sounded Russian. Why would a Russian and a Spaniard be working for these people? Don’t they have any English—? Christ, what was she saying? Did it matter what their names sounded like? She clung to the phone and stared at the carpet, numbed by the thoughts piling into the forefront of her brain in an insane jumble, most of them too horrible to contemplate.
    â€œWhat will your people do? The note said not to tell the police—”
    â€œWe are not the police, Mrs. Hardman. Whoever left you the note doesn’t know we exist. Now, check all the doors and windows are locked, make yourself a cup of tea but don’t touch anything else in the house. Do you understand? Wait for them, don’t talk to anyone else, touch nothing. Stay secure.”
    â€œI understand.” She put down the phone and walked over to the kettle, flicking the button like an automaton. She didn’t want tea, for God’s sake; she wanted Beth. She checked the back door and all the windows, then walked through to the front room from where she could watch the drive and the street outside.
    Outside, where everything looked so normal, so uneventful. People walking, driving, living life.
    This wasn’t real. This wasn’t bloody real !
    She walked back to the kitchen and picked up her phone, and thumbed a text message, the words spurred by anger and helplessness. Maybe, just maybe this would get through to Michael.
    Somebody has taken Beth, our daughter. They’ve kidnapped her! Please tell me what to do! Please call me!!!. N. x
    She hit SEND and walked back to the living room, and stood waiting.

    She must have zoned out because when she looked next two figures were standing at the bottom of the drive. A slim man with pale skin and fair hair, and a woman with short-cropped dark hair and the build of a gymnast. Both were dressed in business suits, the woman holding a briefcase and the man clutching a clipboard to his chest.
    Nancy felt a moment of hysteria building. They looked like insurance salespeople. Or Jehovah’s Witnesses.
    But she knew they were neither.

three
    The house looked smart enough to Ruth Gonzales, but nothing special, which surprised her. Typical of the area, which was northwest London, suburbia at its most normal and unthreatening.
    Or, at least, it had been.
    At the smaller end of the property design compared with some of the neighbours, it was a typical west London home for a young family; the kind where, given a few years and with regular promotions and increases in salary, they’d be on the move to somewhere bigger and better. Up-scaling their lives to the suburban dream.
    â€œWhat’s up?” The man behind her spoke with an American accent. His name was Andrei Vaslik, although he’d asked to be called Andy. Third generation Russian, he’d explained briefly, his family long settled near New York.
    â€œI was expecting more,