The Unseen

by James McKenna

  “Three dead women.” Sean felt his skin prickle and tried to rationalise. What Steve suggested was horrendous. “Even under hypnosis nobody does what they don’t really want to,” he countered.

  “True, but being so involved maybe they wanted to trust. It’s only a theory.” Steve shrugged and indicated the screen. “I’ve a long way to go before I can prove it. Equally sinister, these viruses are programmed to disappear as each level of game is achieved. If the computers had been left in use, all SPI suggestions would have been overwritten – gone without trace.”

  “We have a two-man team, Crystal and Zoby?” Sean asked.

  “Men, or women. Or maybe they’re one and the same. I’ve a ton of information to lift yet. This is kind of unofficial and it needs a lot of time.”

  “What about the public playing PKL? What if a hotel had a private games room?”

  “Wouldn’t be dangerous. A system that size would have special security. These viruses came over the Internet to individuals, possibly sent by some crank or student. Neither is it unfeasible for someone to do it on a world-wide scale. Could be young women are set up to obey Crystal and trust Zoby from Britain to China.”

  “In PKL games?”

  “These viruses clearly have a connection. My worry with this particular one is its ability to breach the computer’s security. It’s not a normal virus, it’s accepted by the system without question.”

  Leaving Rawlings’ office Sean realised the investigation now headed for uncertain ground. Subliminal psychotic induction and murder were an unlikely match, but the consequences if ignored appeared terrifying. He needed something more solid. The council estate in Stoke Newington slapped him back on the ground.

  Malcolm appeared from the caretaker’s flat in floral shirt and shorts. Pink-framed glasses and sweet cologne left no doubt. He wanted immediate recognition.

  “You’re a big policeman. What can I do for you, dear?” He glanced at Sean’s warrant card.

  Sean gave his nice-guy smile knowing it intimidated. “I’m looking for a few facts.”

  “The fact, my man, is that this estate is full of head-bangers, druggies and dealers with whom you people do nothing, but because I am open about natural inclinations, you’re always in my face.”

  Sean retained the smile but removed any benevolence. “Malcolm, you’ve been done twice for drug dealing, three times for indecent assault and six times for soliciting”

  “Everyone a total miscarriage of justice.”

  “Creech also tells me you’re an informer.”

  “Absolute lie.”

  Sean saw the flash of apprehension and knew he’d found a truth. “The injustice, Malcolm, is what would happen to you if the dealers found out. Don’t make this a bad day. Did Sinclair come here often?”

  “Perhaps, I don’t know.”

  “Spill, Malcolm. Tell me, prevent another injustice.”

  “I saw him twice, no more. But he may have come other times, at night. Strangers are always here, dealers, hoodies. They frightened Danny away, he never came back.” Malcolm’s lips pursed. He looked either way along the flats and hugged himself.

  “Who’s Danny?”

  “No one. He slept in the flat, for favours.” Malcolm shrugged.

  “Was Danny here when the girl got murdered?”

  Again he shrugged, not looking up. “I don’t know, they frightened him away.”

  “Who?”

  “Creech.”

  “Be scared if you’ve told lies, Malcolm. I’ll be back.”

  Sean watched the door close then headed towards the crime scene of Lizzie Sinclair’s murder, waiting on proof of Malcolm’s connection with Creech. It came a few minutes later when two large, shaven-headed young men stepped from a car and walked immediately in front of him. Two more stepped from a doorway behind, a third pair came onto the kerbside. Sean realised he was boxed and though they looked like thugs, he also recognised the style. The leading man stopped before the entrance to a café.

  “Boss wants to see you, Mr Fagan,” he said.

  With no way to side-step, Sean went inside. Creech sat in a corner, his head shaven, his suit dark. When Creech’s boys came in behind, the few other customers left while the proprietor disappeared to a back room. “Still modelling yourself on the Krays, Superintendent?” Sean said, sitting opposite Creech.

  “And I see you’re still modelling yourself on Inspector Clouseau.” Creech smiled as his boys took seats by the door. “What are you doing on my manor, scaring my people, putting your finger in my pie? First your little people come snooping, now you.”

  “Trying to find the truth.”

  “The truth is often misleading, Inspector Fagan.”

  “Sinclair never committed suicide. Not through that window,” Sean said, watching the man’s reaction. Too many lies had spun out of this fellow.

  “Let me put the facts. The autopsy showed Sinclair to be six times over the limit. Maybe he didn’t jump, maybe he fell. He’s dead, verdict, misadventure or suicide. Who cares?”

  “I do, Superintendent. Lizzie Sinclair was murdered by the same man as Helen Carter and Sarah Finch.”

  Creech clasped hands over his stomach, chin drawn down to a cynical smile. “I know. His name is Mears.”

  “No matching DNA.”

  “There never was.”

  “You want to bet?”

  “So, pretty Victoria’s been stirring. The case is closed. Bring me new evidence, I’ll consider it.” Creech stood, his boys with him. “The next time you intrude on my manor, Fagan, do me the courtesy of asking first.”

  “Stick a guy named Danny on your lists,” Sean said as he entered the office. “An occasional dosser round the council estate and possibly witness to murder.”

  The team grunted or waved acknowledgement, some sprawled around the outer office, some bent over reports, others cradling phones. Sean rubbed hands. Details were pointing to a full-blown operation with the possibility of it gaining more resources. Heidi came across and passed a message to phone Steve.

  “I’ve got a whole load of SPI influence stored on the hard disks of each victim,” Steve said, when Sean called him. “The source is PKL, Shoreditch. I’m not saying it’s the company. But both games and virus were e-mailed over a line registered to that company. Could be anyone with access, officially or unofficially.”

  “You’re a diamond. Give it what elbow you can, Steve.” Sean hung up and said to the room in general, “I want everyone with time to look at PKL. Anything that can give info.”

  “Got something from my interview with Sarah Finch’s mother,” Diane said. “PKL are constantly seeking new small investors. Sarah held a thirty percent share and got a good return on her money. Share buying could possibly give you a way in. You need a minimum of five thousand pounds.”

  Sean returned to his back office and contemplated what lines his investigation needed to follow. Subliminal psychotic induction and the PKL establishment looked prominent. Nothing showed any risk to the general public, but somewhere within the PKL structure, something was emerging as a target, and Diane had found the perfect opportunity to examine it. Time to stir the Old Boys and drag the troll into battle, he thought.

  Sean was answered on the third ring. “I have positive links on the Poor Girl victims,” he told Cobbart. “Also an area of enquiry with direct lines to each victim, PKL computer games. Could be nothing, but my hunch is otherwise. My line of enquiry requires I go undercover as a potential investor. I need funds, enough to get serious PKL attention. Say five hundred k.”

  “Don’t ask much, do you?”

  “I also need Steve Rawlings in High-Tech to be given resources and time.”

  “The whole idea was to keep this low key. Other forces are involved, there is a political side.”

  “We have a serial killer in our midst and you sent me out to hunt. This will only get bigger before it’s finished.” He listened to Cobbart’s grunt of dissent and knew he had approval.

>   “Leave it with me,” the troll said. “That sort of money takes time.”

  Sean stopped outside MI5 and watched Victoria cross the busy road. “I’ve got five minutes, maximum,” she said, sliding onto the passenger seat and closing the door.

  “You said the Box could tap where we couldn’t. You must have a huge resource file.”

  Victoria nodded. “All sorts of goodies.”

  “What about subliminal psychotic induction?”

  “Used and banned years ago.” She paused, her eyes steady. He thought maybe she was ahead of him. She said finally, “Commercial companies used it to encourage sales. Images were flashed on TV screens and in cinemas. Words, pictures, all designed to produce a subliminal impulse in the viewer.”

  “Could it be used over the Net?”

  She shrugged, twisting in the seat to face him. “Possibly. The implications would be immense. But I think it very unlikely. You would need to be in deep and with high resources.”

  “Mass indoctrination or individual targeting, my question is, could SPI be targeted at certain people so they behave without questioning what they do? Like maybe, go alone into the woods or open the door to Zoby?”

  Behind her dark eyes she seemed to hesitate. “You think that’s what motivated those girls?”

  “Could be. All three of their hard drives had SPI messages. Obey Crystal, trust Zoby. Can you go into records and see what’s there?”

  “Sure.” She checked her watch. “Meet on Monday. I can give you full time then.”

  He watched her climb out. “Victoria,” he called. She leant to the window. “I may need a partner to go undercover next week. My plan will look better if there’s a Mr and Mrs.”

  She smiled and twitched an eyebrow. “Then I’d better find my woolly combinations. Meanwhile, get a good look at PKL this weekend. I’ll be doing the same.”

  He watched her walk back across the road to Thames House and wondered what she knew that he didn’t.

  A Harley Davidson motorcycle with French number plates was parked next to the Citroen. A big, heavy bike, definitely one for the boys. Sean found the owner drinking wine with Danielle in the kitchen. He guessed the visitor at least six two, saw broad shoulders and a flat stomach, but not a boy. Shapely backside and hips wrapped in a stretched micro-mini skirt indicated otherwise. Her breasts needed no uplift. Sean sucked on his teeth.

  “Monsieur Fagan.” Danielle poured him a glass of wine. She was wearing a new, soft, button-through lilac dress. Minimal buttons fastened at the front gave flashes of what lay beneath. “Please meet Francesca, but friends call her Frankie.” She smiled softly for Sean.

  Frankie stood, hip jutted, balled fists at her waist. Her hair was short, her eyes blue, her nails and lipstick crimson. She took the glass from Danielle and handed it to Sean.

  “Welcome home, Monsieur Fagan, and thank you for allowing me to stay.” Her smile gave challenge, while her eyes remained confident.

  “She stays two nights, Sean, this OK?”

  “Sure.” Sean accepted the wine, slowly realising Danielle’s dress was not a casual display but a visual message. He saw the work of Camilla and bet she realised from Danielle’s first interview.

  Frankie went beside her, midriff bare save for a silver chain and a stud in her navel. She put an arm round Danielle’s waist and placed her long firm fingers over Danielle’s hip. Frankie raised her glass. “You are so kind, Monsieur Fagan, when you go next to Paris I would love you accept my hospitality. I am bodyguard for celebrities. I know many good places.”

  Sean sipped at his wine and looked between the two - and he had thought himself a detective. He grinned acceptance and saw both women relax. “Do I get fed?”

  “But of course.” Danielle blossomed in smiles. “The best of French cuisine. We cook together.” She went to the stove. Frankie helped serve his dinner. “Now we leave you in peace.” Danielle placed pans in the sink. “Tomorrow I clean. We go to watch TV in my room.” She took Frankie’s hand, leading her to the stairs.

  “Goodnight, Monsieur.”

  Sean bet Frankie had a hidden tattoo. That night he dreamt of Victoria.

  CHAPTER 10

  Richard had sat next to Mrs Zellar throughout lunch and stayed dutifully attentive for the rest of the afternoon. Listening to her broken, mid-European accent describing the jet-setting, money-motivated world in which she lived, he found her mature years becoming more attractive and her slightly exaggerated dress style enticing enough to consider giving her sex. That she would be a willing participant was all too evident in her body language, particularly when he described his privileged background, his Eton and Cambridge education, his contacts amongst the political and wealthy. Bullshit had always been his forte. Dressed in city suits, with the right accent, hairstyle and manner, he had always prided himself on extracting money from the gullible. Her million would be child’s play. Pity he couldn’t rape her as well.

  He left Snibbard and Faulkner to deal with the others and drove Zellar back to Shoreditch in his leased Mercedes. During the journey Mrs Zellar became Jovana and Richard began to wonder if he had enough Viagra for the weekend.

  At 6.30 p.m. the office was empty and while he clicked on lights she walked across the main open-plan floor and stood looking from the window towards the city.

  “So, Richard, you bring me here to show your empty office or for other reason?”

  “To collect and fill in your share forms, of course. Were you thinking of something else? Maybe you would like a drink first? My flat is upstairs. Comfortable, convenient.”

  She laughed. “Deal money first, Richard. It is my rule.”

  “OK. A million sterling. If you want to give a cheque I can make out the necessary papers right now.” He put a hand to her waist hoping to consolidate his position. A million kept it from going further.

  “Negotiate, Richard. That is also my rule. By morning I could double my investment.”

  Richard removed his hand. She was several year his senior with the scrag-end appearance of the everlasting bimbo, but for two million he’d go down to her smiling. “Why not two million now? As I’ve said, within a year you would have doubled the value of your investment. Maybe more.”

  “Not my investment, Richard. The money I spend belongs to others.”

  He smiled without mirth. “You’re laundering,” he said, eyebrows raised. Who provided the money was no concern of his, so long as it ended in his account without causing problems.

  “Laundering has become such a dirty word, Richard. I am investing for those who wish to place their funds beyond reach of unscrupulous tax agencies. Offshore, legitimate business. Kids games, Richard. Perfectly safe, perfectly respectable.” She smirked, showing little white teeth.

  “Good as blue chip.” He maintained the grimace of stretched lips. “So, deal done. Whose name you want them in?”

  “Tomorrow, I tell you tomorrow. You also bring twenty thousand worth of shares in the name of Jovana Zellar. Free. Maybe I can increase our transaction. Maybe much higher.”

  Richard kept his smile. Under the bullshit this one was a true, grabbing little scrubber. He put his hand back on her waist. “How much more?”

  “My shares?”

  “OK,” he said, considering the shares nothing. Money in his account was the priority. “What do you intend to spend?”

  “Two million plus.”

  He shrugged. “You arrange for two and a half million within forty-eight hours, I’ll arrange for Mrs Zellar’s shares.”

  She checked her watch. “I give you the address of my hotel. I must contact my principals. That will take time. In two hours bring my shares and we will arrange a day for our main transaction.”

  “You that eager for your cut?”

  “No, Richard. I’m eager to see if you can put a smile on my face with your tongue.”

  In the flat above his office Richard removed a Remington 870 pump action shotgun and a 12-bore side-by-side from the back of a cupboard an
d expertly took both to pieces. He placed each component on the table before him, glanced at his watch, then put in a call to Oscar Wileman in America. He queued fifteen minutes for his turn to speak on a scrambled line. While he did so he oiled both weapons and checked his supply of cartridges.

  When Wileman answered Richard dispensed with any pleasantries. “Our research for the required inclusion in the WorkWell application will be finished within five days. All will be contained on one set of flash drives.”

  “You must deliver them without suspicion or problem of any kind.” Wileman’s voice rebounded down the line in monotones.