The Locker by Adrian Magson Page B

if we want to get on top of this. Gina Fraser’s on her way and should be here in a few minutes. She’ll stay here with you. We’ll be back, though, soon enough.” She had a thought. “The gym you go to. Are you a card-carrying member?”
    â€œYes. It’s called Fitness Plus.”
    â€œHow do you check in?”
    â€œMembers have a swipe-card to open the gate through to the inside.”
    â€œDo you ever speak to the receptionists?”
    â€œNot really. They’re usually busy with other people. It’s the way I prefer it; I can come and go as I please.”
    â€œHow often do you go and at what times?”
    â€œThree times a week, sometimes more—always in the morning. I get there just after nine. It’s quieter then, after the early office workers have left. Why all these questions?”
    â€œBecause somebody knew which locker you used and the time you’d be there.”
    Nancy’s eyes went wide at the implication. “You think a member of staff put the card there?”
    Ruth resisted the temptation to go “Duh.” Instead she said, “Possibly. It’s too early to say. Question is, who else would know your routine? Your check-in time would be on the computer, and it’s not difficult to keep an eye on a regular visitor without them noticing. Do you always use the same locker?”
    â€œYes. It’s nearest the door and handy. No. 2. It’s got a safety pin holding the key. I know—stupid.”
    â€œDon’t beat yourself up,” murmured Vaslik. “We’re creatures of habit; even cops and emergency workers. We all like to use the same locker; it’s like a talisman, unchanging and familiar.” His tone suggested that it was a habit he didn’t actually share.
    â€œI can’t believe this,” Nancy replied, looking uneasy. “I mean, I hardly know anyone here in the street, and even less so at the gym. I’m sure I’d have noticed if anyone was watching me.”
    â€œDid you ever see any of the workers hanging around while you were there?”
    â€œNo. The reception area is out of sight and the staff members are always on the go.”
    â€œExactly. They walk by and you don’t notice; they wipe down a piece of equipment but you don’t see them. They are workers, not people.”
    Nancy didn’t reply, but blinked, her eyes distraught.

eight
    Nancy watched them through the front window, and felt a bubble of panic rise in her chest. She had hated them being here, the woman almost as much as the man, her sex meaningless in the question of strangers probing her life and her home, silent invaders asking questions that surely had nothing whatsoever to do with finding Beth. Box-ticking, that was all it had been; going through the motions like a real insurance company claim about a damaged car or a ruined carpet. No real emotion involved but a remoteness that was intended to get the job done, nothing more. She’d been glad to see them go.
    But now they were leaving she wanted to rush outside and beg them to stay, to give the house a least some semblance of normality. Of warmth.
    She felt sick at the realisation that they were the only human contacts she currently had. Not work, not the gym, not Beth’s pre-school . Not Tiggi.
    What did that say about her life?
    Her face was wet again. She brushed at her cheeks, feeling the sting of salt on her skin. Michael would be cross if he saw her now. He always talked about being strong, about not letting anything get to you, about relying on oneself and pushing away doubt. When she’d first thought about it, it had seemed such a strange thing for a charity worker to say, about never relying on others. But that was so much a part of who he was, who he had been ever since she’d first met him. And over time she had come to understand him and his philosophy, and it now didn’t seem odd.
    She turned and walked through