His boss pushed the papers on his desk and looked uneasy. “He was a good copper, one of the Old Boys. And that particular club are unhappy with the way he was treated.”
This is Masonic, Sean thought uneasily and said, “Suicide is a lonely, desperate act. The man drank himself to hell.”
“He had his reasons, though I question whether he made his own exit.”
“The coroner said he did.”
Cobbart’s expression changed and for the first time he looked human enough for Sean to realize the man suffered emotions.
“Sammy had a daughter, Lizzie, from a marriage long in pieces,” Cobbart said. “Lovely child.” He shifted in his chair, eyes downcast. “She was my goddaughter. A year ago Lizzie was murdered. I want you to investigate it along with another unsolved murder. At the same time, I want the true circumstances surrounding Sinclair’s death. I’m certain they’re linked.”
“SOCA doesn’t do murders.”
“Not officially, not unless they’re involved with organised crime.” Cobbart cleared his throat. “If you solve the tragedy of the Sinclair family I can guarantee the Old Boys will be forever grateful. Don’t under-estimate that gratitude or their power.”
“I’m a new boy on the block, John. I’m not a Mason, not part of the Old Boys’ network and I never will be. Besides that, I’ve Operation Back Door in progress.”
Cobbart’s big white teeth appeared in the troll smile from which he earned his nickname, a cynical smile edged with devious interpretations. “Operation Back Door is looking at the trafficking of assassins for use by organised crime, correct?”
Sean nodded. The guy knew it was correct.
“Perhaps one of those assassins has been used in these murders.”
“Unlikely.”
“But possible. Therefore I’m letting Operation Poor Girl run in tandem with Operation Back Door. I’ve even managed to get limited funding.”
Sean sighed. He had no doubt of the power and influences that Cobbart and the Old Boys represented. He also had no doubt he was being thrown into crossfire between the politically correct paper fillers and the Old Boys’ Club. From either side he was on dangerous ground. At the same time, Cobbart would not have placed this on him without absolute trust in Sean’s loyalty. Shit.
“What of the other murder?” Sean asked by way of acceptance.
Cobbart’s expression showed brief satisfaction, then darkened. “Like Lizzie, the other woman was attractive and successful. When Sinclair retired on medical grounds, he investigated his daughter’s death and linked both. Each killing was extremely brutal; both women were computer buffs. Both the killings were in London and both are on the shelf. That is totally unacceptable.”
Sean clenched and opened his fist. Gangland killings were one thing, psychopathic butchery something else. What made it more difficult were the logistics. If Cobbart had managed to open and fund two abandoned cases and encroach on a third without consultation or approval of the original investigating teams, then he was probably on the very outer edge of the official system. Poor Girl was going to upset people and tread on toes. “I’ll need access to the case notes,” he said. “That means liaising with the Met. Whether or not these murders are open or shelved, the CID won’t welcome my interference.”
“Have no fear, I can guarantee the investigating officer’s full co-operation.”
“Who’s he?”
The man sat back and for the first time smiled with real pleasure. “She is Victoria Lawless.”
Sean sagged. “You sure pick ’em, boss,” he said, visualising her face, attractive, intelligent, pushy, an expert in the use of a beguiling presence. Cobbart would have been no match for her. “I heard she made DI in the Met.”
“Briefly. Her boss was Charlie Creech.”
“She worked for that arsehole?”
“I’m glad you share my sentiments, but she’s a tough lady. She investigated both London murders and might have solved them if Creech had not ordered her to arrest the wrong man. Lawless resigned, as she resigned on principle from SOCA. She’s now a spook with MI5 and equivalent to chief inspector. Creech’s suspect walked free but Creech became a tabloid hero by accusing the courts of weakness. Hence he shelved both files as solved but awaiting justice.”
“Then I can count on her co-operation?”
“Better. When I took these files from Sammy’s house I used the Met’s CRIS computer to check a few facts. Somehow she got knowledge of it because two days later she was sitting in this office flashing those big dark eyes and showing enough leg to gain an old man’s full attention. She has downtime and is free to help.”
Not a good idea, Sean thought. He kept his expression bland when Cobbart pushed two A4 files towards him. Clearly Victoria’s tactics remained consistent, as did her understanding of male gullibility.
“Try this contact number.” Cobbart passed a card. “Her contribution will be invaluable and, more pertinently, it gives her a golden opportunity to shaft Creech.”
You and her both, Sean thought, but said instead, “I trust she will accept this is my operation?”
For the first time Cobbart looked uncertain. “You’re handling an SOCA investigation, she’s MI5. Both female victims suffered the most appalling violations. For Victoria this will be justice for her gender. But I’m sure two senior officers like yourselves will find an amicable solution.”
CHAPTER 4
Mark hunted on the streets, his stride positive, his bearing military. He took pride in knowing he was the best, always pristine, pressed grey slacks, well-cut blazer and regimental tie. He wanted to feel good this bright morning but the pressure was balling inside his skull, imploding into a black void of frustration. He blamed the blonde girl on the dance floor. She had laughed, had walked away calling him a liar, had left him cut by the jagged edge of her scorn. Bitch. To get himself right he tried to distract himself with images of Cindy Bradshaw. He visualised her beautiful face, her beautiful body, the firm swell of her breasts beneath his hands, but all he got was the blonde girl laughing. One day he would kill her, like he had killed the others, like one day he would kill Cindy if she ever became a hostile. But he knew that was impossible. Last time they met, Cindy had smiled at him with big blue eyes. She had touched his shoulder, her breasts brushing his arm. Cindy was the perfect female and one day soon, Cindy was going to be his. What he needed in the meantime was enemy action, an interrogation or some close-quarter combat. On this bright morning, somewhere near, there had to be a hostile.
He found her in the Strand near Trafalgar Square. She sat on a rolled up sleeping bag begging from passing office workers. She had tattoos here, there and everywhere. She wore rings in her upper ears, rings in her lips, studs in her nose and tongue. Mark wondered if maybe he should melt her down. He smelt her body, a sharp, rancid odour. A small rat dog lay beside her.
“When did you last have a bath?” he asked.
“Don’t get personal, mate. A quid will do.”
The imperfections of this creature brought a sense of nausea. Was she a hostile or a potential recruit? He had to test her, change her and restore his faith in female perfection. He had two hours spare before work, also a place in which he could secure her and later practise his techniques in training and obedience. “Want to make real money?” He heard the tone of sincerity in his voice, sincerity gained from lessons at drama school. He felt confident in his ability to deceive.
“I don’t do sex,” she said, her lip curled.
“From where I’m standing, you don’t have sex to offer.”
“Piss off.” She reached for the dog which growled in guttural menace.
He would have kicked her, but at 8 a.m. the pavements were getting busy with early workers. He smiled a little and tried to keep his brain cool as he produced two, twenty-pound notes. Her punishment could wait. “I’m looking for eyes, not tits. I’m not interested in what’s under your clothes but what’s in your brain.”
She drew up her l
egs and wrapped them with her arms, hiding what figure lay beneath two T-shirts and baggy jeans. “You’re standing on my patch, geezer. Either give, or fuck off.” She looked away.
Mark dropped a twenty-pound note at her feet, nodding in satisfaction when she snatched it with the speed of a darting lizard. Her expression changed from bored indifference to cunning.
“Plenty more where that came from. No sex, I just want you to beg, and watch.”
“While you jerk off, bloody weirdo.”
Mark felt the vacuum of a black void hollowing into his brain. Now he would make her suffer, truly suffer. She would end up screaming. He elevated the situation to live engagement. Objective one - penetration of hostile confidence. His smile widened. “Lady, I got a hard shell and you are rightly suspicious, that’s good. I wouldn’t be interested in a sucker. Truth is, I’m recruiting for MI5.”
Then she laughed. The noise was a screech on stale breath that soiled the very air he stood in. For Mark it confirmed his suspicions, she was a hostile. No Brit woman would smell the way she did or foul the air with her stinking breath. Cindy’s breath was pure and sweet, the kiss of an angel. This smart arsed bitch was an alien whore. He let his smile grow wide.
“Not so far-fetched as you think, miss. Street people are perfectly suited for unobtrusive surveillance. If you watched the building across the road, who would notice? If I stood here for even five minutes, I’d be sussed immediately. It’s twenty minutes walk to Thames House, Milbank, MI5 Headquarters. You get forty pounds for the walk. Fifty pounds for an interview. Your country needs you, lady.”
“You kidding me?”
Mark shook his head and held up the remaining twenty. “I kid you not. You any idea how many terrorist groups operate here?” he said, and watched her stand, watched her come up for the bait. She was maybe eighteen, maybe older, definitely female in a scrawny sort of way.
“We’re gonna stay on the pavement, always in full view of everyone?”
“Down Whitehall, past Parliament, past Lambeth Bridge to Thames House. Straight through the middle of law and democracy.”
“Give, and you’re on.” She reached for the twenty.
He drew the note backwards, enticing her hand to follow, ensnaring, playing her on the line. This was so easy. “When we get there. You’re not stupid, neither is MI5.”
“Don’t mess with me. I want a tenner now before I go anywhere.”
Mark tore the note in half and pushed the Queen’s head into the neck of her T-shirt. Would she scream as she died, would she not? “You get the other half on arrival, plus an extra twenty for expenses.”
The rat dog shifted round to her feet, staring upward, one paw raised, waiting on its mistress to decide her move. Mark had confidence, money always swayed the disbelievers no matter what bullshit he gave. Something for nothing was a great persuader.
Mark started to walk away. Inside he could hear himself laughing, hear the boy who was hiding where no-one could see. His prick was rock hard. Would she follow? He heard her call, heard the dog bark. A moment later she was beside him, sleeping bag slung over one shoulder. Using mental monotone, he spoke to the Colonel over the combat radio inside his head, a radio that had been there since he was a boy. “Stage one successfully accomplished, Colonel. Hostile defence penetrated. I will now consolidate position ready to secure prisoner. Anticipated interrogation time, two days.”
“Go to it, Zoby.” The Colonel’s answer also came inside his head, came back over the combat radio fastened permanently into his brain, a radio which had been there for as long as he could remember.
“Name, rank and number?” he asked her, but the words came out as, “What’s your name?”
“Me mates call me Sisshy.”
“What’s your real name?”
“Does it matter? Sisshy will do fine. What’s your name?”
“Darley,” he answered. “Captain Jez Darley.” He put a guiding arm to her shoulders as they crossed the corner of Trafalgar Square, dodging traffic until safely in Whitehall. He felt the thin shoulder blade beneath her T-shirt and wondered how it would crack. Her odour was pungent, a dank smell of stale clothes and body. He hated an unhygienic hostile. When they got to the flat, he would scrub her, scrub her with a hard brush until she came out militarily clean. He would curry the dog, make the girl beg for her food. He smiled at the idea but did not report it to base.
Again she laughed, that hoarse, screeching laugh that was instantly irritating. “Jez Darley. What sort of ponce name is that? Sounds like some dickhead celeb’s name.”
“Ex-regiment. I was SAS.” He quickened his pace. The black void was back in his head, spiralling incessantly through his thoughts, cutting communication with the Colonel. “Before that I attended medical school.” He spoke in a clear, clipped voice mimicked from speech therapy tapes, hoping the hostile would not realise his radio link was down. He had to play cool, had to play steady.
“A spy, a doctor! You’ll be a bloody prime minister next.” The ass screeched laughter again.
He hated her, this filthy shank of female meat that never stopped talking, rattling in his ear like an incessant drone. Soon he would teach her the purity of restraint, gouging her body as she screamed her life into silence, the same way his mother had screamed into silence. But then his mother always screamed. Screamed more when she lay burning, too drunk to rise from her bed, too drunk to move while he fed the flames with vodka, his back raw from her scrubbing. “Bitch!” He stumbled. The dog yelped.
“It’s a dog.” The girl was there again. “Don’t kick my dog.”
He was lathered in sweat. They were passing Parliament. He remembered nothing of walking down Whitehall. “MI5 keeps this place clean,” he said. “We check each member for terrorist connections.”
“Bastard politicians.” The girl flicked two fingers. “Least I’m an honest beggar. What do those sods do but fiddle their expenses?”
Again Mark tried radio communication and failed. The vibes from this hostile really screwed him. He was speaking, he heard his voice clear and distinct. “Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country. If you undergo the test, lady, if you pass, you can do a lot to put these bastards down. I’ve fought in Afghanistan, Africa, Iraq. I’ve undertaken covert missions from the Colombian jungle to the Arctic.”
“What test?” She stopped on the pavement, then trotted to catch up.
“The usual to join any organisation. Medical, IQ. Then if you really want to go for it, selection. If you do that, you’re on a grand a day.” As he hoped, beyond Parliament and Victoria Tower Gardens, away from shops and offices, pedestrians gradually thinned to none. To their left lay the black swathe of the Thames and the far embankment.
“A thousand a day?” Once more she stopped, the dog also. “If you’re fucking with me, I really know how to embarrass a bloke in public.”
Mark looked back at her and tried to decide. They were alone here, the pavement deserted, but if he gave her a good kicking, it might draw attention from passing cars. Better to get her to the flat, stay with mission schedule. The owners were holidaying for two weeks. He could gag her, enjoy her for days before she died. He smiled, hoping to convey reassurance. “That’s what I’m on. It takes time to get there, but serious money can be made once you complete training. You start off as a watcher then end in T Branch, counter-terrorism, or maybe K Branch, serious crime and espionage.”
When she caught up he crossed the bottom of Lambeth Bridge. He loved this spot, this place so close to MI5. “There it is.” He pointed to Thames House, keeping on the opposite side of the road as they walked the tree-lined embankment. He felt certain of re-establishing communications here. He always managed communication outside MI5.
“OK, gimme,” she said, holding out her hand, following along the stonewall dividing pavement from river.
“When we get to the flat. That’s over Vauxhall Bridge in Kennington.” He passed the last of the trees and looked ac
ross the river, along the embankment on the opposite side, to MI6. He was waiting on a call from MI6, waiting for acknowledgement. He was the universal soldier, it did not matter what agency employed him.
“You think I’m going to some flat, you’re out of your box.” She came behind, her voice rattling, irritating, seriously getting him annoyed.
“OK.” He turned to her and produced the second half of the twenty-pound note. “Here. If you do the interview you get another fifty and the bonus I promised.”
“You’re having me on, ain’t ya? What’s your game?”
He hated her. He wanted no more questions. She was a hostile, he wanted her obedience, he wanted her to understand discipline, the rigors of combat, of interrogation and pain. He had suffered, she must suffer. The beatings, the humiliation. He wanted her in pain. “Come to the flat and find out, you get fifty for the test. That’s seventy quid, plus what you got already.” He tried to smile but the pressure inside his head left no strength for animation. She was before him, hand out, begging, offering her stinking body.
The Unseen Page 3
