The Unseen

by James McKenna

  Zoby cleaned the driver’s seat of crumbs. He hated to drive a messy limo. Limos were meant to be pristine, clean and smart. They were for rich and important people. He had changed the number plates and filled the tank with sixty pounds of premium petrol. It hurt to spend his own money, he hated spending his own. He wanted cash. He waxed the car exterior with polish found in the boot, shined it like he owned it. He checked and stowed equipment next, ropes, belts, masking tape, clingfilm plus two sealed bags with chloroform soaked pads. He figured that would keep them quiet. The boot was large enough to squeeze two inside. No problem. With hours to spare he plugged laptop to mobile and checked for messages.

  Rendezvous confirmed. Targets will be there. All systems go.

  No mention of money or the third girl, Zoby thought. Maybe she’ll be with them. Trussing up three at once would be tough, would need a quiet spot. He re-checked his maps. He needed somewhere near the pick-up point, a quiet lane with no-one around. Couple of smacks would quickly quiet them down, chloroform would do the rest. He hoped they wore skirts. He loved wrestling when they wore skirts.

  He checked the camera and unsheathed the sword. Braced with legs apart, he cleaved the air above the chair backs in one whistling sweep, wondered if he could behead both with a single swipe. That would be a first, two in one. “So neat.”

  CHAPTER 17

  In the morning Sean kissed Victoria goodbye before they went their separate ways. He figured they had one, maybe two more nights before returning to their normal lives. If by choice they met after that it might be the start of commitment. Did she want it? He realised now that her loneliness matched his own. Both were vulnerable to the other, both human. He blew out breath and walked to his car.

  After driving in a five-mile loop checking no one followed, he headed for St Albans, knowing the war would always be there, circling his life, hammering in his mind, in his face. Always giving an excuse.

  Jan greeted him with a chained door then waved him in to the smell of fresh coffee. She looked neat and scrubbed, boyish in tight jeans and polo shirt, girlish with a slight whiff of scent. She led him into the kitchen. There was no sign of Danielle.

  “A meter reader came yesterday morning,” Jan said. “He stood in the hall. Something about him unnerved Danielle. The guy was young with long hair and brown eyes.”

  Sean considered the possibilities. “Doesn’t fit the description of our burglar.”

  “You can’t jump at every shadow, boss. Meter men have to call. Do you want a couple of uniforms outside?”

  “If John Cobbart thought for one instant my domestic situation was compromised, I’d be off this case immediately. I have no reason to suspect any threat. The girls are staying the weekend with their mother. It’s just the connection via the agent’s address. I’m responsible for Danielle, so I’m playing safe.”

  “Danielle’s real nice. If you want me sitting again tonight, no problem.”

  “If you could stay the weekend, at least until I return, I’d appreciate it.” He went quiet as Danielle wondered into the kitchen. She was wrapped in a bathrobe, her hair spiky, her eyes defiant. She folded her arms and looked straight at him.

  “Jan says she stays at university with me. But there is no need. In university I have friends, some big men, I am safe. From what? You don’t tell me, but I am safe.”

  “She’s right, boss.” Jan cracked an egg. “I’m more use to you on the job than sitting outside a lecture room.”

  “What about lunch? When you go out?”

  “I stay in canteen. I stay with my friends. Jan and I, tonight we have meal together. That I enjoy, but not at my tutorial. I insist.” She put hands to hips.

  Sean recognised French defiance. “A compromise. Jan takes you to uni, picks you up this evening, OK?”

  Danielle smiled and nodded. “OK. Jan helps you during the day. You need good women to help, Monsieur, then you catch this man.”

  “You sure?”

  “Of course, a woman knows.”

  Sean passed through the ops room and looked around the activity as nightshift switched with day. Blue and Red Teams were swapping information. Heidi and Diane were busy collating, making sure everyone had a brief. Phones sounded as Sean greeted them. Carole sat near Heidi’s desk, her face pale, her blonde curls newly sprung.

  “Nightshift found six Mark Harrisons currently in army service but none with a recent bereavement or relevant address,” she said.

  Dead end. He thrust his hand into pockets.

  Diane came across and put papers on the desk. “List of suspects is now down to ten. Two high profiles in Birmingham, five in London, three not so interesting.”

  “Head of the list?” Sean asked.

  “Still Mark Harrison. Mainly because he remains an unknown entity. We have virtually nothing on him. The photofit from the office manager is poor. He doesn’t match our burglar or the description from the clerk at the car hire company in Dublin. Mind, her description is basically worthless. The neighbour’s description is more like the manager’s.”

  Sean raised both hands and growled in frustration. “One way or another this guy must be eliminated. Take a police artist and find Cindy Bradshaw,” he told Carole. “Work her ’til you get a portrait she can positively identify. Go to Travelpath, get all Harrison’s colleagues to verify or change for an exact likeness. Then check again with the neighbour. Check the image against CCTV footage on Dublin flight arrivals from the time the car was hired backwards at least three hours. He may have sat around for a couple of hours in order to disrupt any time check. By the end of the day I want Mark Harrison eliminated or busted. Game?”

  “I’m rolling, guv.

  When Victoria entered the café in Kensington she felt Alice Sibree’s disdainful glare over the crotch-cutting trouser suit Victoria wore for Caswell. The material followed detailed contours like a second skin while the jacket sculptured itself over a platform bra and V-neck sweater. Victoria bought coffee and joined the older woman who sat at a table, her back to the wall and facing the window.

  “It’s for the benefit of the target,” Victoria said by way of explanation.

  Sibree’s smile was cynical. “Most becoming my dear. Let’s hope it drives him to distraction, time is now limited. According to our source, Dr Klass at Milton Keynes, the SPI programme is completed and the master file taken to Shoreditch. During the last few days Caswell, Snibbard and Faulkner have been scrubbing SPI from all public sources. Evidence will still be scattered around with people who have illegally burned games onto disks. But unless they are aware of SPI and know what they are looking for, that evidence will never materialise. According to our banking info, Caswell has been busy juggling money to offshore accounts. A lot of it belongs to his partners in PKL. He has also twice visited his safety deposit box where I’m sure he keeps duplicates of the SPI files.”

  “He’s skipping?” Victoria asked.

  “Almost certainly. We know that yesterday he bought four airline tickets to New York, all leaving later today. He may have bought more tickets. I would say this is a man planning for immediate but uncertain departure. So, completely off the record my dear, I need you to lift the master files and copy them at the first opportunity. I’ll have a van outside with men should you run into trouble.”

  “If I’m caught, where does that leave me, Alice?” Victoria asked.

  “In a precarious and delicate situation. I’m asking you to steal. Any time now, Fagan will close on them. Removal of the files has to be done before or immediately after police engagement. All of which makes your action immediate and imperative.”

  Victoria suddenly realised why colleagues and subordinates called her the Witched Witch. “And what of Zoby, what of the Colonel and Crystal?”

  “You may leave them to the judicial system to prove murder by remote hypnosis. Or if you successfully copy the files, then extract a just revenge. I wouldn’t blame you. In fact with the rest of womankind I’d thank you. Just don’t get caught.”


  “What if it’s Caswell?”

  “Then you have no choice but to leave him to our American cousins and trust in God.” Alice gathered up her handbag. “Are you armed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Discharge of a government-issued firearm will make the action official. Could you please pass it under the table as surreptitiously as possible.”

  Victoria glanced around the almost empty café, pulled the Glock from its rear holster and passed it as instructed. A second later it was in Alice Sibree’s bag.

  “Aren’t you going to take my clothes while you’re at it?” Victoria asked.

  Alice smiled and raised an eyebrow. “No point, there is already little left to the imagination of what lies beneath. Just make sure Faulkner, Snibbard or Caswell don’t physically get to look. One or more are dangerous,” she paused and placed the handbag in her lap. “I know you are out on a limb, Victoria, but believe me, if you come out of this clean and with a copy of the files, then your career and future are assured. Within parliament and the Civil Service, within 5 and 6, the Box and the Firm, there is an elite community, members of an inner group, those who go the extra mile. Those who really control and protect this great nation. You can join them, Victoria. All you have to do, is do it. If it’s any reassurance, I’ve had Caswell followed for three days. I followed him to your house in Watford and we’ll also be outside Shoreditch. Nevertheless, you’ll be inside, so do take care.” She rose from her seat and left.

  Victoria sipped at her cold coffee, her mind full of apprehension. Having someone outside would do little good if she were attacked where no-one could see. Alice might well have taken her clothes for all the protection left.

  Snibbard came in early as expected, and called by phone to the flat. “Where is everyone?” he asked. “Patricia is the only person here.”

  “I’ll be out in ten minutes and explain,” Richard said, looking at Jovana Zellar. She had showered and dressed and was applying her makeup. All Richard needed now were Faulkner and the Fagan woman.

  Zellar snapped closed her lipstick and glanced across with distain. “I tried. So not my fault. May be you should eat stronger Viagra.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Good job you have a long tongue. Now, my shares, then I give you cheque.” She placed one hand on her hip and compressed purple lips to smugness.

  “Your shares are waiting in the office downstairs, is my cheque in your bag?”

  The smile faded. “It takes time to arrange, let me see my shares.”

  He knew then for certain. No money. Disappointing, but the plan would still work. “You’ve got to earn them. Snibbard wants you next.”

  “I will not.” Her eyes flared.

  “Then Faulkner. If you want shares for nothing, Jovana, then you pay the price. It’s good wages. Snibbard won’t last twenty seconds. That’s one thousand shares per second.”

  She stared at him, her eyes dark and narrow. He knew she would comply. It was called greed. She hissed and walked back to the bed.

  “When he’s finished, stay with your legs open, because that’s where your future lies.” He smiled for her and wondered if Vicky could make him rise. There was something special about the Fagan woman. If she lived, maybe he’d find out.

  In the lounge he removed the two shotguns from their locked cupboards. The Remington 870 pump-action was powerful enough to blow a body apart, but he preferred the old-fashioned side-by-side 12-bore, favouring it as a gentleman’s gun and more in keeping with his assumed image. He dismissed future troubles that might arise concerning the Remington. Living alone in a large city building gave understandable, if inadmissible excuse for possession. If the police charged him they would also develop a false sense of security in believing they prevented him from leaving the country. That belief would fit nicely into the plot. He unplugged the master phone from its socket, ripped the jack from the cable end and coiled it under the phone.

  After placing the Remington in a cloakroom by the front door of his apartment, he passed out of the flat and walked twenty-feet along the corridor into the conference room. Next was the empty accounts department, then Snibbard’s office. Downstairs on the lower floors and out of sight, he knew Patricia would be fussing alone with her computer, waiting for Faulkner and the Fagan woman.

  Richard checked his watch and entered Snibbard’s office at the far end, his adrenalin surging. Faulkner and the woman were both due at 10.30 a.m. He had a maximum of forty minutes to set the scene. This was Harry Boy against the world. The lad from Hackney slotting himself into history. Snibbard sat rattling keys at a computer terminal.

  “Snibbsy, me old mate. So you’ve come in for her too?”

  Snibbard’s nose screwed up in question. “Come in for who? Where is everyone? What’s going on?”

  “Faulkner gave ’em all the day off on account of the Zellar woman. That’s why I phoned, to get you here early. You’ll want her before Faulkner. With SPI finished and Zellar available, it’s party time without gossip. Get in there now, mate. Give her one.”

  “Me?” Snibbard’s screwed up expression became fixed on his features. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Jovana Zellar, she’s in the flat, yours for the taking.”

  Snibbard stared open-mouthed. “Fuck off, you’re having me on.”

  “She’s got a cheque from her backers in Russia. But to hand it over she wanted twenty thousand for herself. Faulkner’s done a private deal. He said OK, providing he could fuck her. She agreed, but then she came complaining to me. I said OK, but if that’s the deal, you and I want her first. Your turn, Snibbsy boy.” He bunched his fist and jerked his forearm. “She’s along the corridor waiting on you.”

  Snibbard stood. “You jammy bastard. Is this for real?”

  “I’ll tell you something else. I told her you do it rough and she said fine. You know, skirt yanked, blouse ripped. She wants, you can give. Just like you did to that bird in Glasgow.”

  Snibbard’s face changed as his skin became infused with heat. “You don’t mean that?”

  “I know how you like it, Snibbsy. I was there, remember?”

  “You said we’d forget it. It wasn’t my fault. It was years ago.”

  “Twelve years, Snibbsy. I know it wasn’t your fault, her mucking us about like that, pretending she was going to give when she wasn’t. I mean, you thought she wanted it rough. Some girls are like that, like Zellar.”

  “You helped.”

  Richard shrugged. “Yeah, but I couldn’t do it, not unless I took the pill. You did though, I held her for you.”

  “But I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

  “Never mind, Snibbsy. I looked after you then, like I’m looking after you now. She’s waiting.” He pointed down the corridor. “Waiting for you to rip her clothes off. Special treat for my old mate.”

  Richard watched Snibbard blow out his cheeks. “I’d hurry before Faulkner gets in first. You wouldn’t want to go where he’s been.”

  Snibbard went to the door, looked at Richard as if in question then walked down the corridor. He turned once for encouragement then entered the flat.

  Richard shook his head. “Stupid sod.”

  Alone, Richard unplugged the telephone server for the office then felt over the pockets of Snibbard’s jacket hanging on the back of the chair. Using his handkerchief to avoid prints, he removed a mobile from inside and placed it in a drawer.

  Within ten minutes Snibbard came back, his expression sheepish.

  Richard rubbed hand over forehead, waved it, put it back to the arm of his chair and shook his head as if in agitation. “Is everything OK?” he asked.

  “Couldn’t believe it, she just lay back for me. She didn’t like it when I ripped her blouse, mind. She slapped my faced, told me I was …” His voice trailed off. “She still let me though,” Snibbard smirked.

  “Well, while you’ve been there, Faulkner was here, standing right behind this chair, raving that he was meant to get in fi
rst. Then he stormed back downstairs.” Richard covered his face, looked to the ceiling. “Snibbsy. We got a serious problem. Something you and I need to sort. I know we did bad things at uni, but we were young and, as you say, it was long ago. The problem is, Faulkner’s found out. Now he’s looking to pin us with bad things he’s done.”

  Snibbard’s face grew questioning and Richard tried to fill his own expression with concern and reassurance. “Snibbsy, Faulkner killed Sarah and the others because they discovered SPI. The bastard has involved our work and this company in murder. We need to cover ourselves very carefully or we’ve got big trouble.”