“Nothing so dramatic. It’s me being over cautious. Along with thousands of others, Danielle is an agent for PKL games. Last night she received an e-mail about some prize. The next two days look like long ones and I won’t be home for at least forty-eight hours.” He shrugged. “She’ll be at uni and you’ll be working most of the time. It’s the evenings and nights I’m concerned about.”
“Fine by me, boss. What about your girls?”
“Staying the weekend with their mother.” He looked at her. “You watching over Danielle, it’s strictly unofficial, not even the team can know.”
“I understand, boss.” They drove in silence. He preferred it that way.
Concrete steps led to an upper balcony and accessed one of ten, drab utilitarian ex-council flats. Mark Harrison’s property was central.
“He’s out.” The informant sprouted a De Gaulle nose with grey bristles beneath. His face was motley and heavy with wrinkles. Sean walked to where he sat in a folding chair. Jan re-pressed Harrison’s doorbell then followed.
“How long?” Sean asked.
“Since eight this morning.”
“You sure?”
The man tapped his nose. “I’m community watch.”
“His mother died. Did he say the funeral was today?”
“We don’t talk. He’s army, SAS.” Again he tapped his nose. “Less said, know what I mean?”
“How do you know he’s SAS?”
“His uniform, the insignia, the winged dagger.”
“Have you any idea when he’ll return?”
The old man shrugged.
“Was he in uniform when he left?” Jan asked.
“No. In jeans and shirt like everyone else.”
“Not dressed for a funeral?”
“No. Who shall I say called?”
Sean handed over a plain card bearing just his name and mobile number, wondering if he had discovered a useful watchdog or a nuisance. He suspected the latter.
The old man scrutinised the card, then tapped his nose. “Secret Service, I can tell.”
“You’re sharp. I’d appreciate you letting me know when he’s back.” Sean winked. “Tell no-one. Not even Mark.”
Jan came beside him as they returned to the car. “There’s a lot to do when a relative dies, sorting legalities, family and funeral. It’s all stress.”
“I agree, but if he’s wearing a SAS beret, he’s either Territorial Army or fantasising. Soldiers go on missions, and Zoby’s on a mission.”
“Want a search warrant?”
“Get on to Heidi. But first we put a watch on this place. This could easily blow up in our faces. If Mark Harrison is genuinely grieving his dead mother and we raid the flat, the press will slaughter us. I don’t want to be bogged into politics but I do want bodies.” Sean took out his mobile and dialled up John Cobbart.
“I need at least twenty additional men, some in Birmingham. I also need people on telephones to follow enquiries, at least six, plus ghost shift.”
“This is supposed to be a minor, a preliminary investigation. You’ve already got one extra team.”
“We’re a leap ahead, sir. The next three or four days we need to concentrate.”
Jan clutched his arm, listening on her own mobile before speaking. “Lab boys at Forensic Science have been on to Heidi. The DNA at the Bradshaw’s crime scene, it matches with Poor Girl.”
Sean went back to his own conversation. “We have six lead suspects, plus a possible twenty on the fringes. Our burglar has provided positive DNA linking Poor Girl. Zoby is poised ready to kill again, no time to fuck about, John. We have to do this.”
“Give me an hour.”
“Appreciate it, sir.” Sean switched off. Jan was leaning on the car roof, still talking. “Is that Heidi?” he asked and took the mobile. “Heidi, get on to the War Office, Territorial Army, SAS and Special Forces. Ask Records if they’ve got a Mark Harrison listed. I need addresses.”
He listened to a falter in Heidi’s voice. Stress. “Guv, I’ve got Jill from Red Team but our telephones are getting hot. I need more lines, I need more people.”
“Cavalry’s coming. Six people, plus a ghost shift. The troll is gathering forces via the Old Boys’ Club.”
CHAPTER 15
The Dobbs’ home was a single storey gatehouse, a mile off the A1. The original old manor was converted into offices and its grounds now a sprawl of light industrial buildings scattered between unsold plots. Not the ideal setting, Zoby thought, but isolated. No other domestic buildings meant no neighbours to interfere. A hedge and trees gave shelter.
He left his van on the industrial estate and walked back along the road carrying a fuel can. He walked unhurriedly, thinking that to any observer he would appear some jackass driver who had run out of petrol.
He entered the Dobbs’ place by a side gate and stood in a well-kept garden with trim lawns and weedless flowerbeds. The Dobbs clearly gave it time. Dobbs’ little haven, he thought. A plaque beside the door read, Hollyoaks. Zoby spat on the black polished wood and watched his phlegm slide down over the white lettering.
Round the back, a chewed rubber ring and punctured ball meant a dog in kennels. No cat flap, no rabbit hutch, so no neighbours to call around for pet feeding. The burglar alarm was an irritant rather than a deterrent. Zoby switched on his head radio.
“Enemy base deserted, Colonel. Moving forward to test security.”
“Steady as you go, Zoby.”
“Steady it is, Colonel.”
Zoby walked the full perimeter, checking each window and locating the bell box. He saw no phone number and recognised the logo as a DIY warehouse product. That meant the system would probably be unmonitored. At the back he pulled on gloves and using a bayonet prised loose the glazing beads on a sash window. The small double-glazed unit came out easily and he reached to unfasten the latch. Holding his breath he slid the sash upwards and broke contact on the closed-circuit alarm system. When the electronic sound went off, panic clawed his brain, the high-pitched screech piercing the air and surrounding trees. Instinctively he cowered, then steadied himself. He was combat proficient, strong. “Going to sit this one out, Colonel,” he said into his head radio. “Going to see what reaction we have.” Zoby walked back through the garden and returned to his van. The screeching alarm faded with distance. He waited twenty minutes for the bell-stop timer to cut in and silence the noise nuisance. To pass the time he hummed Kay-ling’s battle hymn, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and figuring what he’d do to her when he reached level ten. When the alarm finally stopped he knew that unless someone came to reset the system, the auto cut-off and the broken contact would leave the alarm inoperable. He could now return with impunity.
After thirty minutes he drove back passed the house. The alarm was silent, no police, no security firm, no-one. Zoby swung round at the next road junction. This time he opened the double gates and parked on the front lawn so the van was left hidden behind high hedges.
To be extra safe, he searched out folding steps from the garden shed, then using them to reach the bell box, he prised it off the wall with his bayonet before throwing it into the adjoining woods. Once inside the house he went to the living room and stood by double French windows which overlooked the back garden. “Enemy position secured, Colonel,” he said into his head radio.
“Roger that, Zoby. Assess for provisions and ordnance.”
Zoby did as instructed and checked the whole premises. “Some food in the freezer and a kitchen full of knives. But I’ll bring my own, I work best with my own. Proceeding back to base.” Zoby spoke into his own head and heard the crackle of static inside before the Colonel replied.
“Roger that. Crystal should have delivered your mission funds by now. Pick up when needed.”
“Will do, Colonel. Over and out.” Zoby was impatient for his cash. He liked to count his money. Certain it would be there, he drove straight to the graveyard. Nothing.
The black mist came down on h
im. He felt the pressure of it inside his skull, felt it eating his mind. “Damn you, Crystal. Where’s my cash? If you want me to proceed as ordered, I want my cash.” He called up on his radio. “No money or I.D. on the hostiles. What the fucks wrong?”
“Crystal must have screwed up. Leave it with me.”
“Will do, Colonel. Over and out.” Zoby kicked at the grave and scattered the marble chippings. “Shit head Crystal.” He went back to the van and drove to his council estate where he spent ten minutes changing number plates. It calmed him, having something to do. Only when the pressure had gone did he go up to his flat.
The Nose was sitting four doors down on the communal balcony. He hated the Nose, always watching, prying. One day he would cut the Nose off.
“The police were looking for you,” the Nose said, staring over the railings to the buildings opposite.
Static flared and scrambled Zoby’s mind, the black mist was instantly back, filling the void with jagged images. He saw the door to his flat, its surface covered with soft flesh and mutilated entrails. He could smell the shit. He clutched the handle and steadied himself. The Nose was staring at him, mouth wide, like the stupid, crazy old fool he was. Zoby thought of killing him.
“How do you know it was police?”
The Nose narrowed his eyes. “I can tell the Old Bill a mile off.”
“MI5,” Zoby corrected. “How long ago?”
“Ten minutes. Sorry to hear about your mother.”
“We all get to die.” He pushed open the door, closing it as he clasped his head. What had he done? Each mission had been a success. The fucking police weren’t in on this. This was Crystal, this was Crystal fucking up. The black void was now burrowing through statics, forming a hollow core in his mind. “Crystal, fucking Crystal,” he said, his cheek against the floor. The Colonel had stopped answering his call sign.
Zoby was unsure how long he floated in the war zone but finally the static faded. He stood up from the floor and immediately switched on his head radio.
“Zoby to Colonel. Have reports of hostiles snooping base camp.”
“We can’t jeopardise mission, Zoby. Take for a long haul.”
“Will do, Colonel.”
Zoby’s two bergens had cost one hundred and eighty pounds each. He figured the situation demanded both. Shifting base because of hostile activity was now routine. The pigs were always sniffing. He packed a full set of fatigues, blazer, slacks and other clothes wrapped round a dismantled shotgun. The Samurai sword was slotted so the handle protruded upwards. Laptop and game disks he pushed to outside pouches along with a stolen mobile. The bulk of one bergen he packed with cash plus a roll of hunting knives. Into the second bergen went makeup and wigs, chemicals, police uniform, police and chauffeur’s caps, false number plates, waterproof combat coat, then crash helmet on top. He hated leaving his trophies, hated leaving his bulky PC. He checked e-mails then deleted everything. While packing he considered burning the place but figured the Nose would have the fire brigade around before he was down the steps. Nothing he could do about prints, but they hadn’t caught him yet, and they wouldn’t catch him now.
He humped one of the bergens into the back of the transit van followed by his moped. The Nose watched him leave but said nothing. Zoby knew the guy would soon be gathering his stick, taking his insect body back to his flat so he could phone the police.
“I’m going to my mother’s funeral, I may be away three, four days. Keep an eye on the place will you?” Zoby asked him.
The Nose raised his finger but said nothing. Zoby hoisted the last bergen onto his back. Time to go to war, he thought. Within the hour he was back at Hollyoaks.
With a platform bra and white Lycra sweater under a fitted jacket, Victoria felt like a two-pronged bumper bar. Standing self-consciously in PKL’s reception, she expected to spend the day as the sole companion of Richard Caswell. Dangling a million pound investment while dressed to give no doubt of what lay beneath and on offer, she hoped to distract Caswell enough to build psychological pointers. Faced with sexual opportunity, most men begin to stalk and in doing so, become overbold, boastful and careless. Judging from Caswell’s attentions the previous day, she had no doubt of his interest and she felt safe in exploiting it. What could he do in a busy office, even if he was Crystal?
After announcing herself to the receptionist she unbuttoned her jacket and waited for her target to appear. Instead a fat-waisted man with hooded eyes came down the stairs. His gaze immediately latched onto the prominence of her nipples and remained there until he offered his hand.
“Hi, I’m Snibbard, PKL’s project manager. Richard asked me to show you around.”
Victoria smiled and tried to hide her disappointment as he pressed clammy skin against her palm. Of the three principal suspects within PKL, she rated this guy as second; and by his manner, it was clear he had a sexual obsession bordering on anti-social. But having set herself up, she gritted teeth and left her jacket open.
Snibbard raised an arm to usher her forwards but as she stepped passed his other hand brushed the stretched fabric of her jeans. She glowered annoyance but Snibbard appeared unaware of the contact. She had his measure then.
“I have another lady here, you’ll be doing this tour together,” he said, leading her behind office partitioning which divided the open floor. “Allow me to introduce Mrs Zellar.”
Mrs Zellar rose from her chair and looked Victoria over with the curiosity of one assessing the opposition. She wore a smart trouser suit and about a kilo of gold in various adornments around her throat and fingers. Victoria smiled, lifted her chest in a deep breath and shook hands. Zellar was clearly a professional piranha.
“I expected to meet Richard,” Zellar said.
Snibbard grinned a full set of teeth and clasped his hands together. “He’s out on an emergency call to our unit in Milton Keynes. The main server is playing up and we’ve had to re-install some programmes. As number two in PKL, I’m deputising for Richard.”
“He will not be back?” Zellar asked, looking at Snibbard as if he emitted some loathsome crepitation.
“He also has to arrange extra share certificates, Mrs Zellar. He hoped you would understand.”
Victoria watched the woman’s plastic smile which for moments gave the appearance of a blow-up doll. “OK. So what do you show us?” Zeller asked.
Snibbard led them back out into the main office. “I’ve two DVD interactive chairs in the conference room. You can view up there without interruption.”
“Tell me, Mr Snibbard,” Victoria said as they walked towards a staircase. “What exactly do you control here?”
“I put it all together.” He followed them up the stairs, Victoria conscious of his eyes burning into her from behind. “Without boasting, everything you see in the finished products of PKL and WorkWell are the results of my engineering.”
“Everything?”
“Well, plus the team of course, also there’s input from Derek Faulkner who you may have met yesterday at Milton Keynes. He’s responsible for the animation. Richard is creative and administrative director but also with technical input. But I assemble and collate everything. The final effects are all mine.”
Victoria suppressed a shudder and turned at the top of the stairs. “I’ll be interested to see these effects.”
She suffered Snibbard to help fasten her into the games chair. His arm brushed her breasts, his fingers fumbled at her waist and on her legs. She watched Zellar allow the same with an attitude of bored indifference, which for Victoria, confirmed she was there to make rather than to give. Snibbard just indulged himself. Would Crystal be so blatantly obvious? Victoria kept her mind open. At least with others around he could do no more than irritate. She wondered if that was why Caswell was absent; so Snibbard could vilify himself. Not the best way to treat potential investors. Or was he testing her?
Two hours were given to video games, mainly the new version of Princess Kay-ling. Then they toured the design office
directly below Caswell’s flat. Again the space was open plan with moveable screens. It housed a team of ten industrious young geeks of both genders. Victoria judged none capable of hurting a fly, never mind another human being. All appeared happy.
“All staff are eligible for a substantial bonus on account of completing a WorkWell project ahead of schedule,” Snibbard said. “Richard is generous that way. PKL has researched part of WorkWell for Starways. The system will hit worldwide. By next year every institution will be affected, my work again.” He smiled, chin back, smug.
“So how much work do you do for Starways?” Victoria asked, snatching at Snibbard’s indiscreet revelation.
The Unseen Page 20
