The Locker by Adrian Magson Page A

message.”
    â€œMay I?” Ruth picked up the phone and touched redial. A standard voicemail robot, sexless and bland. She put the phone down. “Where can we find his employers?”
    â€œI tried the only number I’ve got. There’s no answer.”
    â€œIs that normal?”
    â€œI don’t know—I don’t often have to tell them my daughter’s been kidnapped.” She shook her head in irritation. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that. The charities he works for … they’re not mainline; they often work from temporary offices with minimum staff, putting all the money into field operations and resources.”
    â€œWe’ll need the address details.”
    â€œI’ll look.” Nancy stood up and left the room. Ruth and Vaslik exchanged looks but said nothing. When Nancy came back she was carrying a ring binder. She flipped it open, frowned when she found what she was looking for, then scribbled on a post-it note.
    She handed it over. “Sorry—that’s all I’ve got.”
    Ruth checked it. It was a phone number. “Does this charity have a name?”
    â€œProbably, but I don’t know what it is. I told you—he works for more than one. I forget which one this is.”
    Ruth handed the note to Vaslik, who took out his cell phone and walked into the hallway.
    To get her back to talking, Ruth asked, “What did your husband do before the charity thing?”
    Nancy frowned. “All sorts. I think he worked in the city for a while, then he got tired of it and decided to do something worthwhile.”
    â€œDid he make any money?”
    â€œNo. It wasn’t that kind of job. I think it was more admin than anything. He never spoke about previous jobs—I don’t think he considered them of value compared to what he does now.”
    â€œSo he’s an idealist?”
    â€œIs that wrong?”
    â€œNot at all. How did you meet him?”
    For the first time there was the ghost of a smile. “I was in Paris, helping at a business conference. I used to work in marketing. I was walking past Sacré Coeur during a break and snapped the heel of my shoe on a cobblestone. God, I was so embarrassed. But suddenly, there he was. He came to my rescue and got me a cab to my hotel. We started dating when I got back to London.”
    â€œHow romantic. And he was a charity worker then?”
    â€œYes. I believe he was with Oxfam at the time. But he left them not long afterwards to go freelance. He said there were lots of smaller organisations who needed all the help they could get without paying big bucks to their staff.” She lifted her shoulders. “If that makes him something of an idealist, then I guess he is.”
    â€œWhat places did he work?” Vaslik had re-entered the room. He was juggling his phone in one hand.
    â€œMostly in Africa. He was a field coordinator and travelled all over.”
    â€œName some names,” said Ruth.
    She hesitated, blinking, as if her mind was mired in glue. Then she said, “Rwanda, Mali, Somalia … countries where they’ve had the guts ripped out by war, famine, disease—you name it. I can’t remember where else—he goes wherever he’s needed.”
    Ruth glanced at Vaslik. “None of them gel for me.” When she received a nod of agreement she added, “Where else—away from Africa?”
    â€œI don’t know. Places—I forget where.”
    â€œDid you ever go to any of these ‘places?’”
    â€œNo. He never invited me. It was hardly likely to be a holiday, was it? Anyway, I’d have been in the way, excess baggage.” The words were tinged with a trace of sadness, and she added, “Sorry—I didn’t mean that.”
    â€œFair enough.” Ruth stood up and Vaslik moved towards the door.
    â€œYou’re going already?” Nancy sounded alarmed.
    â€œWe have to. We’ve got things to do